


All That Is Gold

by Rizobact



Series: Transformers Fantasy AU Novels/Novellas [3]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Feels, Fluff, Humor, Innuendo, M/M, Noble AU, Romance, all that good stuff, cinderella story, fairy tale AU, including Smokescreen, other canon character cameos, who is a relentless tease, with considerable liberties taken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-06 01:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10322183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rizobact/pseuds/Rizobact
Summary: Becoming a prince and having to find a bondmate through a series of balls weren’t things Prowl ever saw in his future. Neither was finding love in the form of a servant mech named Jazz. Caught between his new responsibilities and the new feelings Jazz awakens in his spark, Prowl needs to find a way to be true to both — something that might have been a whole lot easier if he hadn’t decided to attend those balls in disguise.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SunnySidesofBlue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunnySidesofBlue/gifts).



> Commissioned by SunnySidesofBlue who wanted some indulgent OTP fluff in the form of a retelling of Cinderella :D Shame about the angst, humor and feels that snuck in there, huh? This bunny did one of those things where you see it shiver, then a second later it EXPLODES all the ideas everywhere and suddenly the short one-shot you were going to write winds up requiring chapters. Several of them. Fortunately it bit us both so I still got to write it XD Thank you Sunny! I loved working on this and I hope you continue to enjoy it <3

“Ladies and gentlemechs!” Three sharp raps of his staff against the elegant flagstones accompanied the majordomo’s call for attention. “His Royal Highness, the Heir Presumptive!’

“He’s not supposed to do that,” Prowl muttered from his place slightly behind and to the right of the ‘Heir’ at the head of the grand staircase. “There aren’t supposed to be any presentations until after the Prince is bonded.”

“Relax,” Smokescreen whispered back, raising one arm and waving serenely to the noblemechs and femmes in the ballroom below. “I’m pretty sure a chamberlain announcing  _ me  _ as the Heir  _ Presumptive,”  _ he emphasized the word, “at a house party doesn’t count as an official presentation of his Royal Highness Prince Prowl, Heir to the Argent Throne.”

“Shh!” Prowl hissed as they began their descent. “I thought you agreed to help me.”

“I did, and I will! You’re the one started it by complaining about protocol.” The crowd-winning smile on Smokescreen’s face never wavered, though Prowl felt a teasing edge in his EM field where it brushed against his own. “Now why don’t you try being a good servant, hmm? Seen, not heard?”

“A good servant would complain about breaches in protocol,” Prowl said indignantly, but left it at that. The whole point of this deception was to avoid drawing attention to himself, and Smokescreen was right — both about the announcement not really being problematic, and about how a proper valet would be behaving right now.

Trust the mech to be enjoying every second of this though, including getting to order Prowl around. Smokescreen was only heir to a duchy on the far east border of the kingdom. Prowl had ranked him even before his sudden and unexpected elevation from seventh in line to first after the horrific shuttle crash that killed so many dignitaries at the last summit. The only status they had in common was being presumptive heirs to their respective titles until they inherited in full by taking a bondmate. Smokescreen, however, could wait to do so. He would lose that luxury if something happened to the Duke of course, but Prowl? No. There could be absolutely no delay if the Prince needed to take his place on the throne. Prowl had to find a bondmate  _ immediately. _

Which was what they were doing here in the first place. In deference to the time crunch, and the fact that Prowl could not host a ball at the palace to meet anyone until after he was bonded, the palace advisors had suggested ‘casually’ visiting the local nobility and meeting the heirs to the local houses to select one of them as his mate. They  _ hadn’t  _ suggested Prowl ask his friend to impersonate him, but Smokescreen could assess prospective mates as well as Prowl could given his experience at courtly games, and this way, Prowl was free to investigate other things.

Together they made their way through the crowd, Prowl’s unassuming black and white paint not garnering so much as a second glance next to the vibrant jewel tones Smokescreen was sporting. They had modified his paint a little to help him look the part, but his base color scheme was the same blue and red with yellow and green accents he’d always worn. Metallic highlights and crystal embellishments along the edges of his plating drew every optic in the room to him, and he preened under the spotlight of their attention.

“Your Highness! What an honor it is to meet you,” a tastefully painted mech in oranges and yellows exclaimed.

“Likewise, Sir Flaneur,” Smokescreen replied, returning the deferential nod of the mech’s helm with a brightening of his smile. “And you! Why, you must be the magnificent Encomiria I’ve heard so much about,” he said to a white and lavender femme trimmed with delicate silver ornaments. “I hope you continue to see success in your work.” 

Prowl felt the pleased flush in Encomiria’s EM field at being recognized by the ‘Prince’ as they moved on. Smokescreen continued to exchange greetings and acknowledgements with everyone, dropping names Prowl had only passing acquaintance with. No more than a handful were ones he could have matched faces to on his own. As far down the line of succession as he had been, Prowl had been training to be a foreign diplomat. He hadn’t expected to spend much, if any, time in the capital court. It left him woefully unprepared, something which had been apparent right from his homecoming.

When he’d first arrived from the countryside with Smokescreen, the mechs at the palace had initially mistaken Smokescreen for Prowl. Smokescreen, with his optic-catching colors and confident stature, had better fit everyone’s idea of the Prince compared to Prowl, who hadn’t had a chance to update his colors to match his new position yet. His paint was more befitting a lesser noble or wealthy tradesmech than a first heir. It had been somewhat embarrassing, to be sure, but that incident had inspired Prowl to hold off on a repaint in favor of his current ruse — a ruse which seemed to be working out splendidly.

Mostly.

While Smokescreen was lavishing compliments on yet another lesser noble he had never heard of, Prowl acquired a crystal flute of light highgrade from one of the attendants wandering the room. “Would you care for some refreshment, your Highness?”

“I believe I would,” Smokescreen said before leaning in and whispering, "So? How am I doing?"

“Aren’t you perhaps overdoing it a little?” Prowl whispered back, passing over the flute. 

“Of course I am!” Smokescreen grinned brightly. “I’m making an impression.”

“You’re supposed to be  _ convincing,  _ not playing the thespian.” Just what sort of impression was Smokescreen trying to leave these mechs with of their new Prince? Of  _ Prowl? _

“Oh, come on. They’re expecting someone handsome, charming, and not too bright, like most royals. I’m just giving them what they want! Besides,” Smokescreen sipped his highgrade, “if I’m to listen to idiots fawn over you for ten nights in row, I want to at least have a little fun while I’m at it.”

How very…  _ Smokescreen  _ of him. “You’re an idiot,” Prowl chuckled in spite of himself. 

“Thank you for noticing! But you really shouldn’t talk about a member of the royal family like that.” Smokescreen winked. “I might just have to dismiss such an impertinent servant.”

At last they reached the back of the room, where the lord and his family stood waiting to receive their guest. “Your Highness!” he exclaimed warmly, giving Smokescreen a florid bow. “Welcome to our humble home!” He was wearing so many strands of crystal they could hardly be called accents. They all chimed against his plating as he straightened to a less-than-impressive height for a flightframe. “I, as I’m sure you know, am Lord Powerglide! Allow me to introduce my lovely Lady Astoria,” he gestured grandly to the much more elegant femme with intricate etchings and inlays in her sable and cream armor beside him, “and our beloved creation, our pride and joy, the young Lord Tracks!”

“Your Highness.” Tracks bowed only slightly less obsequiously than his sire. The aristocratic lines of his uniquely red faceplate caught the light of the ornate chandelier above them fetchingly, and his midnight blue plating sparkled with a perfect mirror finish. He was an interesting blend of his creators, his kibble clearly indicating a vehicle altmode similar to Astoria’s, except for the white winglets on his back. “We are honored to host you this evening.”

Before Smokescreen could even open his mouth to respond, Lord Powerglide was talking again. “We’re unspeakably grateful for this chance to get to know you! Come, let us show you around. The house has recently undergone several rather impressive renovations, if I do say so myself!” He glanced briefly at Prowl, then back to Smokescreen. “Perhaps your servant would be more comfortable with the others while we give you the tour?”

It was phrased as a suggestion, but it was clear the Lord was not interested in having Prowl with them. As the ‘Prince’ Smokescreen could refuse to send Prowl away, but there was no real reason he should. There was still a bit of a desperate ‘help me!’ look in his optics as he turned to dismiss him, however. “See to the preparations in the kitchen,” he ordered calmly. “If I require you before the banquet commences, I shall summon you.”

Prowl flashed his ‘master’ the briefest hint of a smirk before hiding his face behind a bow. “As you command, your Highness.” Served him right after being so cheeky, having to deal with Lord Powerglide’s compulsive need to talk about himself, his family, and his estate on his own. Leaving him to it, Prowl turned and excused himself, weaving his way back through the crowd with the invisibility of a servant.

_ That  _ was why Prowl had determined to attend these parties in disguise: he wanted to be invisible, unimportant; in other words, someone mechs wouldn’t hide things from. He knew all the unflattering feuds and secrets would be swept out of sight as soon as the noble houses learned of the Prince’s visits. They would all be putting their best faces forward, playing up the reasons he should choose their heir over any of the others. But Prowl didn’t want to make his choice based on masks worn only for an evening or the virtues (or lack thereof) of a single mech or femme. Whoever he picked, Prowl would be tying himself to their family, and he didn’t want to encounter any unpleasant surprises down the line. If there were ghosts to be found, the time to do it was now, not after the bonding ceremony. 

That it bought him time for a crash course in all the things he was lacking that Smokescreen had grown up learning as first heir to his duchy so he didn’t make a fool of himself in front of everyone was a nice bonus.

Before he could start hunting down servant’s gossip, however, Prowl did need to check on things in the kitchen. He had to make sure he was seen doing his ‘job’ if he wanted to remain inconspicuous, and Smokescreen had annoyingly insisted on having one of his favorite regional delicacies served with the second course. It was difficult to prepare correctly, and there was a good chance the chef wouldn’t be familiar with it.

Not knowing where the kitchen was, Prowl stopped one of the house servants to ask directions. The mech politely but somewhat hurriedly rattled off a series of doors and corridors, leaving Prowl nodding his thanks as he disappeared into the swirl of the ballroom. Prowl ran over the directions in his head, hoping he would be able to remember them all. Apparently only the nobility had a direct route to the ballroom, while the servants’ halls meandered quite a bit.

He was just turning a corner, distractedly thinking about where he needed to turn next instead of looking where he was going when it happened. 

_ WhumpfCRASH!!! _

“Oh no! I am  _ so  _ sorry, sir!"

He’d run into something — some _one_ — moving at a brisk pace down the hall. Prowl was so startled by the collision it took a second for it to fully register. He’d forgotten that mechs wouldn’t automatically give way to him. Not that he’d given this mech much of a chance to avoid him, stepping right out into his path the way he had.

“Please forgive me, it was an accident! I’m sorry, I’ve gone and made such a mess of your finish…” 

Prowl flinched backwards as the mech grabbed the folded towel from over his arm and began swiping at his bumper. He hadn’t been expecting anyone to touch him either! “That’s really not necessary,” he protested, his foot inadvertently coming down with a solid  _ crunch!  _ on one of the miniature cocktail cubes now strewn about their feet. “I should be apologizing to you.”

“No, no, it was my fault,” the mech persisted, continuing to wipe away the multicolored flecks splashed across Prowl’s paint. The partially gelled energon stood out just as obviously on his own blue-accented black and white plating (odd; the other servants Prowl had seen were all painted in tans and burgundys), but he seemed determined to clean Prowl up first. “I shouldn’t have been rushing like that, I’m the one ran into you. I’m sorry.”

“Please, it’s fine,” Prowl brushed off the apology. “You’re not injured, are you?” He didn’t think the impact had been hard enough to dent either of them, but he needed to be sure. “I’d feel terrible if you’d been hurt on account of my carelessness.”

“The carelessness was all mine,” the servant said, raising his helm from his task. Prowl found himself momentarily stunned by the mech’s face. A broad, bright visor covered his optics, glowing with a soft blue light that made the dusky silver of his faceplates shine as expressive lips twisted into a wry grin. “I’m really going to hear about it for running over the Prince’s valet!”

“To have run me over properly, you would have needed to be driving, not walking.” The somewhat flippant rejoinder came so naturally that Prowl didn’t think twice about voicing it, and he was pleased to see the other mech smile further at the humor. “I’m not going to report you over such a minor incident. Especially when I contributed to it.”

“No, you didn’t—”

“I’m quite sure that I did,” Prowl said firmly. “I was too busy trying to remember the way to the kitchen to watch where I was putting my feet.” He shifted his foot away from the broken cube, careful not to smash any of the others. “Case in point.”

“Haha, well, I’m the one dropped them where you could step on them after throwing them all over you.” The servant made one final pass with the towel over Prowl’s shoulders, then draped the soiled mesh back over his arm and knelt to gather the fallen cubes. “I’m going to have to return to the kitchens myself now. You could follow me, if you trust me not to run you into another snack tray?”

“I do,” Prowl said before kneeling himself and reaching for the overturned platter, ignoring the servant’s look of wonder at his actions. “This was, after all, an accident. You are forgiven.” 

“…Thank you,” the mech finally said,  _ gratitude  _ suffusing his EM field as Prowl helped him collect the cubes. “You really don’t have to help me.”

“I can think of no reason why I should not.” Working together, they soon had the tray stacked again. Prowl handed it back to its proper bearer, then gestured in what he hoped was the direction of the kitchen. “Lead the way. We can send someone to take care of the floor.”

“Thanks,” the mech said again. Prowl followed close behind as he set off down the hall. “So what exactly is it you need with the kitchen? It’s a bit of a madhouse right now, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Of course.” Prowl could only imagine it insofar as he knew large events like this required a great deal of effort and coordination on the part of the staff, having no actual experience with this side of such things himself, but he didn’t want to reveal his ignorance. “I need to speak with the chef regarding a particular dish, after which I will happily take myself out of his way.” Then he could start looking for servants who could spare a moment to talk — and gossip.

“Good plan. Good to know, too, since it means you actually need the cellar, not the kitchen. The chef was down there arguing with the butler about inferior highgrade when I started upstairs with this, and they’re probably still at it.”

“Inferior highgrade?” Then again, perhaps his gossip-gathering was already beginning!

“Oh, don’t worry, the Prince will be served the very best in the house! But there’s not enough of certain distillations on hand to go around all the tables, much less to cook with.” The mech shrugged, making Prowl fear for the precariously balanced cubes he was carrying, but none of them slipped. “You have to admit we weren’t given much notice to prepare.”

“No one had much notice,” Prowl pointed out. “There was no way to send advance word.” Not when he hadn’t known he would be coming to the capital, much less attending a rushed series of banquets and balls, less than a week ago.

“I know, but Lord Powerglide isn’t one to look ahead or make contingency plans. The whole house has to scramble when things catch him by surprise.”

_ That  _ was a useful piece of information, particularly if the heir shared his sire’s short-sightedness. It wasn’t a trait Prowl himself had, nor one he enjoyed dealing with in others. It ran counter to both his training and his personality.

They slowed as they rounded the next bend, stopping when they came to the second door along the corridor. “There’s your stairs to the cellar,” the servant said, nodding to it. “I’d get the door for you, but my hands are a little full.”

“You’ve already been a great help,” Prowl assured him. “Thank you for pointing me in the right direction.”

“You’d have been lost without me, huh?” There was that grin again, warm and bright and lighting up his entire face. “Good luck getting a word in edgewise down there!”

Prowl watched as he left, smiling quietly until he was out of sight. Then, bringing his focus back to the task at hand, he reached for the cellar door.

***

“Remind me again,” Smokescreen winced as he flopped with a sigh of relief onto a plush settee back in Prowl’s suite at the palace, “why I agreed to this?”

“Because,” Prowl said, settling into a luxuriously padded chair with an equal sense of relief, “you said, and I quote, ‘it sounds like fun’.” They had only just returned from Powerglide’s manor, much later than scheduled, and he was exhausted. 

“I guess you were right before,” Smokescreen said flatly, his face completely serious. “I am an idiot.”

For a second Prowl just stared at his friend. Then he started laughing, and Smokescreen joined in a moment later. It felt good to relax and speak freely again after so many hours of pretending — hours that had been harder for both of them than they’d anticipated. But the question was: had it been worth it?

“So tell me,” Prowl said once their laughter died down. “What do you think of Tracks?”

“Based on what little interaction we had when his sire wasn’t dominating the conversation?” Smokescreen shrugged. “The best I can say for him is that he’s relatively inoffensive. His biggest flaw, other than having an overbearing sire, is his vanity. He likes to talk about himself, particularly to compare himself favorably to others.”

“Likely not my best prospect, in other words.” 

“As you say. Particularly since the family as a whole has issues you’d be wise to avoid.”

“Issues such as a lack of forward thinking and detrimental spending habits, you mean?” After a rather harrowing experience in the cellar, Prowl had left the chef to resume his ‘discussion’, as he’d called it, with the butler over the state of the household stores. He’d gotten an audialfull about where the Lord’s spending priorities lay on his way up the stairs, and everything the other servants had told him only confirmed the chef’s vitriol. “According to his staff, Lord Powerglide spends an inordinate amount on the physical appearance of his family and the estate.”

“Oh, it’s not just him,” Smokescreen cautioned. “Remember I said Tracks was vain? He spends more money on high-end polishes and custom waxes for himself in a month than my sire spends on energon for all our servants combined.” Which was no small amount. The Duke’s manor was large, and so was the staff required to run it. “The Lady’s just as bad, though at least she has better taste than her mate when it comes to ornamentation. But, of course, higher style comes with a higher price tag.”

“At the expense of other essential things, yes,” Prowl sighed. “They consider only today and make no provisions for tomorrow. How discouraging.”

“Yes, but there is a bright side — that was only the first house, and they set the bar pretty low.” Smokescreen straightened on the settee with a smirk. “The next ball shouldn’t be nearly so bad.”

“One can only hope,” Prowl chuckled. “Then again, I doubt  _ my  _ experience is likely to vary a great deal from one house to the next.”

“Ah, yes, while I’m stuck dealing with round after round of  insufferable, status-obsessed nobles, you’ll be off cavorting with the pretty servants.”

“Smokescreen!” That was  _ not  _ what he had been doing at all! The mere thought of ‘cavorting’ with the contentious chef made Prowl shudder. “I was working every bit as much as you were and you know it.”

“Suuuure,” Smokescreen laughed, but Prowl knew the lie in his words. For all that Lord Powerglide and his family had been obnoxious, Smokescreen had been in his element at the center of attention, socializing with the elite and playing their subtle power games. “So you’re saying there weren’t  _ any  _ pretty servants then?”

“No, there—” Prowl protested, then paused.  _ You’d have been lost without me…  _ Knowing he’d already given himself away with his hesitation, he admitted, “There might have been one.”

“Aha!” Smokescreen said triumphantly. “What was his name?”

“I don’t know—” 

“You didn’t even get his name?!” Smokescreen doubled over laughing before Prowl could finish his sentence. “Classy, Prowl. Real classy.”

“It wasn’t like that!” Prowl threw a chair cushion at Smokescreen. It bounced harmlessly and ineffectually off his shoulder. “I ran into him in the hall and caused him to drop what he was carrying. I helped him pick things up and he showed me the way to the cellar. That’s all.” There hadn’t been time for introductions; besides, even if they had exchanged names, what then? Prowl wasn’t going back to that house any time in the foreseeable future. He wasn’t going to see the mech again. And anyway- 

“It’s just as well,” Smokescreen said, finally getting his cackling under control. “Soon you’ll be a bonded mech, and your intended might not like knowing one of his servants had you before him.”

—there was that. It would be so much easier for Prowl to bond with a stranger if he didn’t do something foolish like fall in love with someone first.


	2. Chapter 2

The second ball began much the same as the first had: Smokescreen was announced upon their arrival, then mingled his way through the crowd, but this time Prowl was permitted to stay with the ‘Prince’ and the Ladies of the house rather than being summarily dismissed. 

Lady Chromia apologized for her mate’s absence, explaining that Lord Ironhide had been called away to their country estate to deal with a local dispute threatening to escalate into armed violence. She promised he would be home in time for the Prince’s bonding ceremony, however, regardless of whether he chose their creation as his bondmate.

The young Lady Firestar gave a much better first impression than Tracks had, though it was up to Smokescreen to find out more about her once he sent Prowl off on the same errand to find the chef a short while later. Smokescreen insisted that it was a real sacrifice having to eat the fancy dish at every single banquet just so Prowl could have an excuse to begin his investigations, but Prowl knew better.

This time Prowl waited for a server to exit the ballroom with an empty tray and followed him to the kitchen. Luckily the chef spotted him before he had time to get in anyone’s way and sent a page to direct him where he could stand.

“Chef says to please wait here, sir, and that she’ll be over as soon as the canaries go up!” 

_ Canaries? _ “Do you mean canapés?” Prowl suggested gently.

“Yes! Cannep— crana— those things!”

Prowl chuckled at the young mech’s mispronunciation. “Close enough.” He watched the little scamp run off, perfectly happy to stay on the sidelines of what appeared to be utter chaos. There had to be some sort of organization to it, a dance the kitchen helpers all knew the steps to, but it wasn’t one Prowl could even begin to follow.

It wasn’t long before the chef — a formidable-looking femme at least two heads taller than Prowl — finished a set of delicate edible foil sculptures and wove her way over to him. “Right then,” she said. “Now that I have a minute, what can I do for you?”

“My name is Prowl, valet to his highness,” Prowl introduced himself. “I need a word concerning the special dish he requested.”

“Oh yes, the aspic. Don’t worry, I’ll be seeing to it personally.”

“Be careful,” Prowl warned. “Some of the ingredients require special handling.” The white phosphorous in particular, which Smokescreen insisted be substituted for the usual zinc chloride. “It’s more volatile than the usual preparation, and the finished dish is meant to appear slightly cloudy. Overclarifying it will degrade the flavor.”

“Are you telling me how to do my job?” the chef asked, affronted. “Look here, I don’t need a  _ mechservant  _ instructing me on the finer points of cooking. How about you go back to your job and leave me in peace?”

“I have delivered my message,” Prowl said stiffly, slightly offended himself. “My job here is done.” Let her take the fall if the aspic tasted bland and overdone, or worse, exploded and couldn’t even be brought to the table. Prowl wasn’t going to stay and be insulted. At least Powerglide’s chef had been pleasant to him when he wasn’t shouting at the butler.

Prowl took himself out of the kitchen, hoping the rest of the staff wouldn’t be quite so officious. If everyone was as entitled and contentious as the chef, this would be a very long night indeed.

Unfortunately, no one he encountered wandering the halls was willing to spare him a moment. They weren’t too busy with work. Several times Prowl turned a corner to find small groups of servants taking a break, only to be brusquely brushed off. After awhile he began to suspect it was because he wasn’t a member of the house. On one hand that was a positive sign — loyal servants reluctant to spread rumors about their masters were a good thing — but on the other, he wouldn’t be able to learn very much if he couldn’t get anyone to talk to him.

The banquet wasn’t due to start yet, but Prowl was considering returning to Smokescreen’s side early when he caught a flash of blue out of the corner of his optic. Blue on black and white. No, surely not! Why would he be here? It made no sense, but Prowl couldn’t help the sudden, irrational hope in his spark. Ignoring the impossibility, Prowl followed that hope down the hall, searching for the servant he’d met in Powerglide’s manor. 

“Hello?” he called out. “Is anyone there?”

Silence.

Feeling slightly foolish, Prowl turned and began retracing his steps. Enough wasting time. He would go back to the ballroom to watch how Smokescreen handled—

“Wait!” The familiar voice stopped him in his tracks. “Did you get turned around again?”

Prowl whirled around. “It  _ was  _ you I saw!” Sure enough, standing there was the black and white mech with the blue visor. His plating was no longer spattered with spilled energon, but he was still smiling that slightly lopsided grin. “I thought it might have been, but then I wasn’t sure. How…” he trailed off, a troubling thought occurring to him. “Did you get in trouble and lose your position because of me?”

“Lose my—? Ohh, no, everything was fine! Really, I wasn’t in trouble. Well, not too much trouble, and none of it was your fault,” the mech laughed pleasantly. He didn’t sound upset over said trouble, so it must not have been that bad. “Don’t worry, I didn’t have a position there to lose.”

That probably would have made sense to another servant, but Prowl didn’t understand. If he didn’t have a position with Powerglide’s house, what had he been doing there? What was he doing  _ here? _

“They hired me to help with the party,” the mech explained. Prowl’s confusion must have been evident on his face. “It’s a good way to earn a little extra money, and it lightens the extra load on the house staff. I’m one of six mechs here tonight doing the same. I expect I’ll be able to get work at all the houses the Prince is planning to visit, actually, which is good news for you.”

“How is that good news for me?”

“Beca~use, I arrive before you and can learn the lay of the land, so to speak. All you’ll have to do when you get lost is look for me.” That smile somehow managed to widen even further. “I’m Jazz, by the way.”

“Prowl. Nice to meet you,” Prowl introduced himself. “Again.”

Jazz laughed. “Yes, again. So! What can I help you find this time?”

“You’ve already done it; I was trying to find someone willing to talk to me.”

“They’re giving even the Prince’s valet the cold shoulder?” Jazz let out a low whistle. “Wow. And here I was thinking we must’ve done something to offend them.”

“The servants are being standoffish with you as well?” By ‘we’ Prowl supposed Jazz was referring to the other temporary staff in addition to himself. “I was beginning to get the impression that this house is rather insular.”

“I can’t contradict that, given my experience. It probably shouldn’t come as such a surprise, since—” The sound of a gong cut him off mid-sentence. Prowl cursed silently. He’d been curious what he was about to say. “We should be getting back. They’ll be starting the meal soon, and I’m supposed to be washing dishes.” With a spring in his step Prowl wouldn’t have had if he were on his way to wash dishes, Jazz started down the hallway. “Come on! I’ll drop you off.”

“I can find the ballroom on my own,” Prowl protested, falling in step with Jazz anyway. “I’m not nearly as directionally challenged as you take me for, I’ll have you know.”

“I do know,” Jazz said, the warmth in his expression taking any sting out of his words, “but I’d just as soon save everyone the trouble of arranging a search party before dinner.”

“How thoughtful of you.” Maybe he should have been offended, but Prowl couldn’t quite bring himself to be. Jazz wasn’t insulting him, just teasing him; not unlike Smokescreen, in a way. “I suppose I am once again in your debt.”

“Well then, come find me after dinner. You can discharge that debt with your fine company while I slave over the pots and pans.”

Since that would give Prowl a chance to ask Jazz more about the house, he was perfectly amenable. “I shall,” he agreed. “Perhaps I’ll be able to regale you with tales of exploding aspic.”

“Trust me,” Jazz laughed, visor twinkling merrily. “If anything explodes in the kitchen, I’ll know before you.”

***

After a thoroughly uneventful meal — the aspic had neither exploded nor tasted bad, disappointingly — everyone retired to the gardens to stargaze. Prowl stayed long enough to ensure Smokescreen was settled, then broke away in search of Jazz. A real valet probably wouldn’t have wandered so far in case he was needed, but Smokescreen wasn’t going to call on Prowl. Not when the point was for him to be doing exactly what he was doing.

He was a little leery as he entered the kitchen, but relaxed when he didn’t immediately spot the chef. Prowl wasn’t particularly optimistic that she wouldn’t chase him out a second time if she caught him loitering in her domain. Unfortunately he didn’t see Jazz either, though there were three mechs by a row of sinks busily scrubbing away. Two were painted in the colors of the house servants, but the mostly black mech with a red visor on the end obviously didn’t belong. 

“Excuse me,” Prowl asked him, hoping he would be more helpful than the others. “Do you know where I might find Jazz?”

“Jazz? He’s out in the courtyard,” the mech answered, putting down his brush. “Do you need me to show you the way, sir?”

Had Jazz told  _ everyone  _ he couldn’t find his way around? Or was this mech just trying to be polite? “Please,” Prowl said simply, biting back a more cutting response.

“Alright then,” the mech said, wiping his hands off on a towel and stepping away from the sinks. “Follow me.”

As soon as they reached the courtyard, Prowl understood why Jazz wasn’t indoors. The pots stacked at his side were completely blackened, and the white sections of his plating were liberally streaked from working on them. Still, he smiled when he looked up at them. “Prowl! Come to join me in my drudgery?”

“I don’t think he’s allowed to mess up his finish,” Prowl’s guide said with a deep chuckle, “and you’re not fit to be seen in public.”

“Good thing I’m not serving tonight then. Though who knows? Maybe I’d start a new fashion.” Jazz dropped his sponge into the tub and stood, posing dramatically. “Charcoal Chic, by Jazz!”

After sharing a good laugh, Jazz bid goodbye to the other mech and sat back down. “Pull up a chair,” he said to Prowl, gesturing to a pile of empty crates. “Just don’t pull up too close. Trailbreaker’s right, you shouldn’t let any of this get on your paint.”

“I’ll be careful,” Prowl said, settling a reasonable distance to the side where Jazz wouldn’t be likely to splash him. “What’s all this?”

“This,” Jazz’s engine gave a grumble of frustration, “is the result of a certain someone, who shall remain nameless, insisting she knew what she was doing when three different mechs told her she was making a mistake”

Ah. It had exploded after all. “She’s lucky she had time to make a second batch when the first one went up in smoke then.”

“Literally up in smoke! We had to turn on all the exhaust fans and block off part of the kitchen until it cleared.” Jazz huffed his vents reflexively. He probably still had residue in his filters from the accidental smoke bomb. “What idiot handles white phosphorous like that?”

“An idiot who thinks they know what they’re doing.” Prowl shared a conspiratorial smile. “Even when they are told by no less than  _ four  _ mechs to take extra caution.”

“You tried to warn her too, huh?” Jazz shook his helm and sighed. “You shouldn’t let pride get in the way of accepting a little help. But she ignored me and Trailbreaker because we aren’t part of the house, and Trinket because he’s only a housemaid.”

“My warning was dismissed for similar reasons.” Reasons which were clearly ridiculous. “You started to say before that such attitudes in this house weren’t surprising. Why is that?”

“Hmm? Oh, that.” Jazz scrubbed in silence for a moment, a thoughtful frown on his face. Prowl waited patiently for him to continue speaking. “This is the first time I’ve actually worked at this house. It’s rare for them to bring on anyone new here. The Lord and Lady run a tight ship, and the staff have all been together a long time. That makes them really efficient, but…” Jazz glanced around, checking for eavesdroppers. “They’re arrogant. All the mechs I’ve run into at the market from this house act like they’re better than everyone else because they have a position here. Now, I don’t mean to sound like I’m criticising anyone,” he added quickly, “but that attitude has to come from somewhere.”

Somewhere, or someone, Prowl interpreted. He hadn’t gotten an impression of arrogance from either of the Ladies at dinner, however. Were they different when they didn’t have an audience? Or was Lord Ironhide the one? “I’m aware that certain behaviors have a tendency to flow downhill,” Prowl said carefully, “but I don’t believe I’ve encountered the wellspring.”

“Well spoken, sir!” Jazz saluted with his sponge. “Very tactfully put. But of course you wouldn’t. They’re trying to impress you! Or, more accurately, they’re trying to impress your master.”

“They’ve been doing a fair job of it then,” Prowl said, though he was beginning to feel apprehensive. That was exactly the sort of thing he’d been worried about. “Is there something his Highness ought to know they would prefer he did not?”

“Nothing as sordid as I’m sure you’re thinking,” Jazz said, deliberately flicking a soap bubble at him. “Relax! This is a good house, perfectly respectable as far as I’ve ever heard. It’s just that while confident and assured are polite ways to describe the Lord and Lady, prideful and stubborn might be more accurate.”

Prowl did relax hearing that as he wiped the soap from his shoulder. Some had landed on his doorwing, and he fanned it to dry it off. “So there’s an air of entitlement born of competence, and a resistance to change,” he interpreted. “It could be worse.”

“Much, much worse,” Jazz nodded emphatically. “The only thing I got for my ‘impertinence’ over the recipe was this.” He lifted the pan he was working on. It didn’t look any cleaner than when he’d started. “Though right about now, I think I’d almost have prefered a whipping.”

“For trying to help?” Prowl asked, shocked.

“For speaking out of turn.” Jazz submerged the pan again and resumed scrubbing. “Some houses are really strict.”

“Why would you work in those houses then?” Prowl blurted out, then blanched. “I’m sorry, that was too forward.”

“No, it’s fine.” Prowl still felt it wasn’t, but didn’t interrupt. “I work in those houses because I need the money. My creators both returned to the Well when I was young, and they left behind a sizeable debt. If I’m ever to get out from under it, I can’t go around being picky about the jobs I take.”

Now Prowl  _ really  _ felt his question had been too personal, but Jazz seemed willing to talk about it, and he was curious… “Would it not be better to find a permanent position? Something that would afford you regular duties and income, with a master that wouldn’t come down so harshly on minor infractions?”

“You say that like such places are easy to find,” Jazz said with a wry quirk of his lips. “Of course that’d be nice. I’d much rather work in better conditions for better wages than take abuse I don’t deserve from an entitled mech with an abundance of temper. But if that’s all I can get, then I’ll do it. I hoped I might be hired here again after tonight actually, since they’re fair to outside help even if they’re a bit prejudiced against it, but I doubt that’ll be happening now.”

“Surely she doesn’t blame you for her own mistake!”

“Does it matter if she does? I’d remind her of it, which means she won’t want me around.” Jazz checked the pan again. Still no visible progress. “I probably won’t want to see the inside of that kitchen again anyway, if I ever manage to finish these. Besides, I might still be able to impress someone at one of the other houses on the Prince’s circuit.” He turned to grin at Prowl. “Perhaps I should thank him for giving me the chance to interview with so many places!”

“I could pass that along for you,” Prowl offered, keeping his return smile small even though the irony of Jazz having actually just done so in person amused him greatly.

“Sure! Why not?” Jazz reached up to rub at a splash of soap on his cheek, only succeeding in getting soot on his nose. It did nothing to detract from his beauty. “Maybe you can see if there’s an opening on the palace staff while you’re at it!”

Prowl had to laugh at that. “I make no guarantees.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to. And you don’t really have to,” Jazz said, a soft warmth filtering into his field. “Though I would like to talk like this again, with you.”

“I will look for you every night,” Prowl promised easily, “though I won’t always have so much time to spend idle.”

“Pick up a sponge and you won’t be idle now,” Jazz teased, mime-tossing the one in his hand at Prowl. “But I know what you mean. I’m a little surprised the Prince hasn’t called for you by now, honestly. The nobles I’ve met don’t usually like going so long unattended.”

“He’s not unattended.” Smokescreen could call on the Ladies’ servants as easily as he could on Prowl, indeed was supposed to do just that. “And I am keeping his interests in mind.”

“I noticed.” Jazz lowered his voice. “What you asked earlier, about things the Prince ought to know… he wouldn’t have sent you looking for those things, would he?”

Prowl tried not to react, but he felt his doorwings twitch slightly. So much for keeping that secret. Had he really been so transparent? “I would ask you to keep that in confidence,” he said, equally quiet. “It would hinder my chances of success if it were known what I was doing.”

“Some mechs will assume that’s what you’re doing anyway,” Jazz informed him, “but I won’t confirm their suspicions for them. Actually… if you’re willing, I might be able to help you.”

“In what way?” 

“What if I ferret out whatever I can during the day while I’m working, and then when evening comes I give you a report? You’ll probably get more going through me than you would on your own, and I,” Jazz shifted on his crate to lean towards Prowl, a brilliant smile on his soot-streaked face, “will get to spend more time with you.”

Even if the chef hadn’t just presented such a glowing example of why it wasn’t wise to dismiss help when it was offered, Prowl would have accepted. Jazz was right — he would have time and experience on his side to find out the sorts of things Prowl needed to know. At the very worst, he would be no worse off; he could simply proceed to talk to the other servants if Jazz had nothing for him at the next ball. And if Jazz succeeded… Prowl knew he shouldn’t indulge such feelings, but he wanted more time with him as well.

“I would be immensely grateful,” he said, holding out his hand. “Do we have an accord?”

“I believe we do!” Jazz brought his own hand forward to clasp Prowl’s, then laughed when soap squirted between their fingers. “Ahaha, I forgot! Oops?”

Prowl stared at their joined hands, now equally covered in black grease and foamy soap. “Oops,” he agreed, then broke down chuckling as well.

Eventually they managed to shake hands despite shaking with laughter. Prowl was almost reluctant to withdraw his hand afterwards, even though the combination of grease and soap wasn’t a pleasant one.

“You should probably go clean up,” Jazz said ruefully, returning to his washing. “Just in case you are needed in the gardens.”

“I should go out to the gardens soon, regardless.” He might not be able to get much out of the reticent servants, but Prowl couldn’t in good conscience not make the effort. Not with his own future on the line. “I still need to gather my own rumors tonight.”

“Aww, you mean you don’t want to come back and watch me do battle with the beast?” Jazz raised the dripping disaster of a pot from the tub up in front of his bumper like a shield. “Though it take me all night and cost me my life, I swear on my spark I will vanquish the foul fiend!”

“I have every faith in your victory. But, just to be sure…” Impulsively, Prowl reached one dirtied finger out towards Jazz. 

Jazz watched with a bemused expression, flinching slightly when he made contact with his cheek. “Prowl, what are you—”

“Don’t talk,” Prowl interrupted. “You’ll mess it up.”

“I’m already a mess,” Jazz protested, then obligingly fell silent. 

Carefully, delicately, Prowl traced out glyphs of protection on Jazz’s face, one on either side. “There,” he said when he had finished. It was silly, but the sight the impromptu war paint made him smile nonetheless. “Now you are invincible.”

Jazz looked like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words. Temporarily speechless, he just stared up at Prowl, and Prowl couldn’t look away. The only sounds in the courtyard were the soft  _ whir _ of their vents and the steady  _ drip, drip, drip  _ of water from the pot.

At last Prowl drew back, breaking the spell. "Until tomorrow,” he said softly, already looking forward to it.

“Yes,” Jazz echoed. “Tomorrow.”


	3. Chapter 3

Firestar made the shortlist of acceptable bondmates. In her, Prowl would have a strong-willed partner with a solid, practical education and a respectable, if rigid, family. As political matches went, he could do far worse. Knowing that took a lot of pressure off the next evening. Tonight, Lord Shockwave’s heir could be intolerable and his house corrupt beyond measure, but Prowl wouldn’t have to worry about them being the best of a bad lot.

That he was looking forward to seeing Jazz again didn’t hurt his mood either.

Jazz wasn’t easy to find, however. Prowl discharged his duties with the chef promptly, but the house uniform was the same monochrome black and white Jazz sported, making it harder to pick him out of the crowd. Prowl could feel time ticking down to when he would need to return to Smokescreen and walked faster, checking everywhere he thought Jazz might be working with no success.

In the end, it was Jazz who found him.

“Excuse me, but could you help me with — oh! There you are!” Prowl turned in the direction of the voice and saw Jazz struggling behind a large box, his visor just barely peeking over the top of it. “Hi Prowl.”

“Hello yourself,” Prowl replied, moving to take some of the box’s weight. Whatever was in it was incredibly heavy, enough so that he was surprised Jazz had been managing so well on his own. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Same, though I’ve hardly had a spare moment since the Prince arrived.” They shifted the box a bit, balancing the weight between them a little more evenly before setting off down the hall. “It’s just as well you’ll be busy during dinner, because I won’t have a break until afterwards. Lord Shockwave has a show planned for after the meal, so we have to finish making sure everything is in place and ready to go for the big spectacle.”

“What sort of spectacle?” 

“It’s —  _ oof!  _ — a surprise!” Jazz somehow opened the door at his back without letting go of his end of the box. “Do you think you’ll be able to join me when dinner is over?”

“I should be able to, yes. Provided I don’t have to spend the time mingling with the rest of the staff, that is.” Which he would, if Jazz wasn’t able to give him a satisfactory gossip summary. “Will you make it worth my while?”

“Absolutely.” Jazz’s visor twinkled over the box, and Prowl could feel the smile in his EM field. “Meet me in the third floor gallery off the main staircase and I’ll tell you what I learned this morning. You can decide for yourself whether I lived up to my end of the deal.”

Prowl fervently hoped that would prove to be the case. “I will see you there and cast my judgment then.” Together he and Jazz settled the box on a table among several others just like it. “Are you sure you won’t tell me what these are for?”

“Positive. Trust me,” Jazz said, and this time Prowl could see the smile on his face. “It’ll be worth the wait.”

After dinner, which proved to be a wholly magnificent affair with elegantly sculpted dishes so beautiful it was a shame to see them dismantled and consumed, Prowl followed Smokescreen to the terrace. “I really hope what they set out for the servants is as good as what we just had,” Smokescreen whispered. “Everything tasted as good as it looked or even  _ better.” _

“If they don’t, I’ll simply have to satisfy myself later,” Prowl whispered back, expecting that would be the case. He didn’t mind though. The palace staff might enjoy the challenge of matching the marvels he’d just seen. “Do you need me for whatever entertainments have been planned? I did make a contact before the meal who promised to share information.”

“Go ahead and meet them.” Smokescreen scanned the crowd around them, searching for their hosts. “Lord Shockwave is big on appearances and prefers that servants not be visible.”

Prowl bowed shortly, then returned inside. He’d definitely gotten the impression that appearances were important here, between the lack of color on the servants and over-the-top culinary presentations. Shockwave’s efforts were even more notable than Powerglide’s attempts to impress, which, ironically, made them less effective. The excesses here struck Prowl less as hollow vanity, and more as an attempt to conceal… but to conceal what?

He hoped Jazz would have the answer as he climbed the stairs to the third floor. He didn’t know which way to go at the top, but Jazz called out before he could make a wrong turn. “Prowl! This way,” he waved from a nearby doorway. “Quick, or we’ll miss the start.”

“The start of what?” Prowl asked, following Jazz into the long, darkened gallery and over to a wall of windows. 

“Of the show!” Jazz claimed one of a pair of ottomans, gesturing for Prowl to take the second. “Remember the surprise I told you about?”

“I do.” Prowl sat down, still looking at Jazz instead of out over the terrace he’d just left below. “I also recall you saying something about coming being worth my while.”

“It will be,” Jazz promised confidently. “But first — look!”

Prowl followed Jazz’s finger to the window just as a flash of light and color burst across the sky. A shower of purple sparks glittered over the grounds, arcing up to hang in the air before falling delicately, burning out in silver streams as another starburst appeared, then another, and another. 

Fireworks. 

The display was every bit as extravagant and beautiful as the meal that had preceded it. Prowl sat beside Jazz in the shadows, watching in silence. The heavy glass of the windows muffled the sounds of the explosives as new constellations bloomed against a backdrop of stars, their short lives burning fiercely before fading away into the black. 

Every so often Jazz’s dimmed visor, its usual blue so deep it appeared almost black in the dark, would catch the light of a particularly bright rocket. Prowl angled himself to better see those reflections, finding himself more and more focusing on the trailing comets and shooting stars in the crystal expanse covering the optics of the mech at his side instead of the ones outside. 

Jazz’s slightly scuffed and worn plating glowed in the flickering light, stark white softened to gray on blue and black. He was beautiful… 

“Prowl?” A voice as lovely as the vision before him startled Prowl from his thoughts, grounding him as the last of the fireworks faded from the sky. “Are you alright?”

“Yes! Yes, of course,” he replied, somewhat embarrassed. He hadn’t meant to let himself get caught up like that. “That was quite a surprise.”

“You liked it then? I’m glad.” Jazz relaxed, concern melting away. “It’s just too bad I can’t take credit for it.”

“You may claim credit for the idea of watching from here.” Prowl knew he wouldn’t have enjoyed the show half as much from among the crowd as he had watching it alone with Jazz. “We had a better view than anyone else here, thanks to you.” His view had certainly been better, anyway.

Jazz gave an awkward sort of half-bow from his seat. “Think nothing of it, milord!” he chuckled, straightening. “I did have an ulterior motive though.”

“Did you now?” Prowl asked, intrigued. 

“Indeed! For you see, now I have you all to myself…” Jazz leaned in, continuing in a stage whisper, “no one to interrupt… no one to overhear…” His EM field crackled with humor in marked contrast to his dramatic tone. “No one to stop me from… talking your audial off like a meddlesome, gossiping busybody.”

“Ah.” Prowl blinked at the unexpected turn, his processor rather clumsily shifting from thinking about Jazz (and what they might do, alone, together) to his actual purpose for being here. “Clever.” And it was. Ensuring they wouldn’t be overheard was perfectly legitimate ulterior motive. “My audials are prepared. Do your worst.”

“Just remember you asked for it! Alright: I heard—”

***

“—and that’s why his heir behaves like a highly sophisticated drone,” Prowl finished with relish, entertained by the look on Smokescreen’s face. “He  _ is  _ a drone, created in a desperate attempt by the Lord to combat his loneliness after his bondmate left him sparkbroken.”

Smokescreen sat in stunned silence, unable to formulate a response. Prowl took the opportunity to sample a few of the snacks the kitchen had sent up in response to his request for something ‘complicated and decadent’. So far he was quite impressed. Each treat was unique, some boasting a single, well-rounded note while others contained a whole symphony of full, rich flavors, all molded in intricate shapes and beautifully decorated with edible paints and lusters.

“You really should try these,” Prowl encouraged when Smokescreen continued to gape at him. “Otherwise I may very well eat them all myself.”

“That’s absolutely ridiculous!”

“You won’t say that after you’ve tried one,” Prowl deliberately misinterpreted Smokescreen’s outburst. “I really will finish the whole plate if you don’t start helping me.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Smokescreen grumbled, though he did reach out to take one of the small confections and popped it in his mouth. His field brightened in surprise at the taste, but he was still borderline scowling at Prowl after he swallowed. “That story sounds more like a cautionary tale about believing everything you hear from superstitious servants than anything useful.”

“On the contrary, I found it enlightening.” He’d also found it as ludicrous as Smokescreen did, but Prowl didn’t consider whether or not the story was true all that important. “The fact that the story exists says more about the Lord and his house than the story itself.”

“Pfft, yeah.” Smokescreen made a derisive huff with his vents. “It says that he needs to hire better servants.”

“No, it says that he is too  _ distant  _ from his servants,” Prowl stressed the word, “and, by extension, from other things as well.” That was something he’d had to explain to Jazz too, after the mech had finished regaling him with all the utterly fantastic things he’d heard over the course of the day. While Jazz had identified a few commonalities as likely having a basis in truth — the loss of his mate resulting in a lasting, drastic change in Shockwave’s behavior, for instance — he’d missed the subtler implications more troubling to Prowl.

“So he’s a bit of a recluse,” Smokescreen said, still missing the point. “That isn’t a crime, it’s just eccentric. Which, let’s face it, is practically a job requirement for the nobility.”

“There’s eccentric and then there’s eccentric,” Prowl said, pausing to savor another snack. Personally he found the majority of upper class peculiarities tedious, but perhaps that was just his own eccentricity. “Take the dinner we were served and the show tonight. A penchant for over the top hospitality is eccentric, but it’s hardly dangerous.”

“Except to the Lord’s bank account,” Smokescreen chuckled. “A party like that doesn’t come cheap.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Prowl agreed. “But it also doesn’t come often. Lord Shockwave doesn’t spend in excess to impress constantly the way Lord Powerglide does. He spends his time and money on… what, exactly?” The accounts of horrific experiments out at his countryside estate (probably) weren’t accurate, but they highlighted the fact that no one really knew  _ what  _ Shockwave did when he disappeared for days at a time, and felt disturbed enough by him to make up such incredible tales. “The degree of secrecy surrounding him concerns me.”

“Are you sure you’re not just reacting emotionally after hearing all those stories?” Smokescreen asked, a fair enough question. “Sensationalized gossip can create biases.”

“It can, yes. But you yourself described the Lord as one of the most consummate politicians you’ve ever encountered, able to fill an entire evening with words without revealing or committing to a single thing, and his heir as his obedient thrall.” 

“Somehow it sounded nicer when I said it,” Smokescreen mused, not denying his earlier words. “All things considered then, probably not a good match?”

“Honestly?” Prowl shuddered. “I would rather bond with Tracks.”

_ …or Jazz.  _

***

The fourth ball only served to cement that stray thought in Prowl’s processor. Apparently having taken Prowl’s seriousness to spark, this time Jazz had presented his findings with a thorough analysis as they took a simple meal together in the servant’s hall.

“…which would be highly beneficial, at least initially, since what the Prince knows well is foreign policy, not domestic affairs,” he concluded, finishing his thoughts just as he finished off the last of his energon.

Prowl sipped at his own cube to conceal his surprise. The entire conversation had demonstrated a level of political acuity he hadn’t been expecting from Jazz. “His focus was on foreign policy because he was to have been a diplomat,” he said, wondering how Jazz even knew what the Prince’s — his — area of study had been. “One who travelled extensively outside the kingdom.”

“And that knowledge won’t be wasted,” Jazz said confidently. “A Prince should know his neighbors. But he doesn’t know that much about his own subjects yet, and having Lord Ultra Magnus as his bondmate would give him someone with expertise to draw on while he learns.”

“I had no idea you had such an interest in politics.” The way he spoke, Prowl could tell this wasn’t just an intellectual exercise for him. Jazz was genuinely invested in what he was saying. “What else don’t I know about you?”

“A~ll sorts of things,” Jazz replied enigmatically, pretending to draw a cloak around his shoulders to ‘shroud’ himself in mystery. “Things you could never imagine in your wildest dreams!” Then he broke character, giggling at his own airs. “Seriously though, I know he’s pedantic and plodding and not very interesting, but he’d be a good political partner. That’s what really matters in the end, right?”

“Right.” That was  _ all  _ that was supposed to matter, Prowl forcibly reminded himself, even though he was beginning to feel it wasn’t enough.

***

“Stop, stop, hold on a second,” Smokescreen cut Prowl off mid-sentence as he was relaying Jazz’s revelations after the fifth ball. “What did you just say?”

Confused, Prowl repeated. “I said, my contact wasn’t able to meet me again until after dinner because—”

“That! That right there,” Smokescreen interrupted again. “What do you mean, ‘again’?” A slow smirk spread across his face. “You found yourself another pretty servant, didn’t you?”

“No!” Prowl protested quickly — too quickly. Smokescreen’s grin widened, and Prowl felt his doorwings droop in defeat. “Yes and no,” he amended. “He’s not just a pretty servant. He’s Jazz.”

“Ohh, this one has a name, does he?”

“Smokescreen!” Prowl snapped, then gave up with a resigned sigh. There was no way Smokescreen was going to let it go, so he might as well get it over with. “He’s the same mech I met at Powerglide’s manor. He’s been gathering rumors during the day for me while he’s working.”

“Which frees  _ you  _ from having to talk to anyone else at night so you can spend all your time with him,” Smokescreen said shrewdly. “How terribly convenient.”

“It is, actually,” Prowl said, groaning when Smokescreen started cackling. “And  _ not _ because we’re doing what you’re suggesting! I simply mean that I’ve been able to learn a great deal more by relying on and discussing things with Jazz than I would have on my own.”

“Really? So there’s  _ discussing  _ going on! How scandalous!” Smokescreen laughed, then raised his hands defensively at the glare Prowl gave him. “Okay, fine, you’re not doing anything scandalous. But is what you’re doing wise? What if he finds out who you really are?”

“He won’t,” Prowl assured Smokescreen, ignoring the pang in his spark at the thought. “As far as he ever need know, I am merely a valet charged with ensuring the best possible match for my master. He was already planning to work as many of the parties as he could get hired on for before I engaged his services, and he said collecting information for me on your behalf in addition to his other tasks would be a simple affair.”

“Before… you engaged his…” Prowl could hear Smokescreen struggling, and in the end he just couldn’t keep a straight face and burst out laughing, much to Prowl’s annoyance. “A simple affair? Haha! You really ought to consider how things will sound before you say them, Prowl!”

“…I’ll take that under advisement.” He would around Smokescreen, at any rate.

“Services… wow,” Smokescreen wheezed, then coughed to clear his vents. “Well, I guess that’s not an issue then. How much are you paying him?”

“Paying him?” Prowl wasn’t paying Jazz anything. 

“Wait, you’re not paying him?” Smokescreen asked, sounding suspicious. “The mech’s basically spying for you. There has to be something in it for him. If it isn’t money, what is it?”

According to Jazz, what he got was the pleasure of Prowl’s company — which there was absolutely no  _ way  _ Prowl was telling Smokescreen. “He did mention he was looking for permanent work and made a joke about me putting in a good word for him at the palace,” he said instead. “Perhaps he gained the impression that I would find a position for him in exchange for his efforts.”

“I’d bet on it,” Smokescreen said, relaxing. “Not a bad trade on his part, really, and easy enough to uphold on yours.” Then his mischievous smile made a comeback. “So, tell me — what  _ positions  _ would you like to see this Jazz in?”

Prowl groaned again and refused to answer.

***

Compared to the atmosphere of the previous balls, the sixth was remarkably relaxed. Rather than having formal cocktails before the meal, everyone gathered in the main courtyard instead to mingle casually and admire the heir’s collection of exotic plants. Lady Botanica, it seemed, had a real talent with the organic life forms.

She and her creators were also much more liberal when it came to certain social customs. For the first time, Prowl spotted temporary staff serving alongside the regulars, their mismatched paint obviously not a concern as long as they did their jobs. Given the riot of color all around in the form of alien plant life, those with matching paint actually stood out more.

Immediately Prowl began looking for Jazz.

Smokescreen noticed. “Is he here? Your—”

“An excellent idea, your Highness,” Prowl said, completely ignoring the unfinished question. “I’m sure the fountain is even more lovely when viewed up close.” The look Smokescreen gave him promised trouble later, but Prowl didn’t care as they walked over to the fountain so the ‘Prince’ could admire it. 

He should have thought of that. If Smokescreen identified Jazz, he would probably do something ridiculous like order him over to talk with him! Prowl wouldn’t be able to stop him without breaking his cover, and Smokescreen would take merciless advantage of that fact to thoroughly embarrass him. It would be better to wait and meet up with Jazz once Smokescreen was safely occupied elsewhere.

If only he’d had a way to communicate that to Jazz. Prowl finally spotted him only a second before Jazz met his optics. Seeing his face light up with recognition filled Prowl with an odd mix of joy and terror. It took everything he had to prevent any of his reaction from bleeding into his EM field and hold his doorwings rigid. He could only hope that Jazz would take his stiffness as a cue to remain formal even in a relatively informal setting, not a sign that he was angry with him.

There was confusion in Jazz’s field at first as he drew near, but then it smoothed away. Prowl thought he saw a short flicker of a wink directed at him before Jazz drew himself up, shifting his posture in a number of subtle ways that all combined to give an impression of dignity and poise. Suddenly he didn’t look like a lowly serving mech anymore, but a cool, collected dignitary who just happened to be carrying a tray of hors d'oeuvres. 

Prowl would have dropped the tray if he had been the one holding it, watching the way Jazz gracefully stepped up within arm’s reach then came to a perfectly controlled stop. He posed artfully, the platter in his hands on display in a way that was just prominent enough without being obtrusive to anyone walking by. The overall effect was that of a statue — an exquisite, living sculpture.

_ What positions would you like to see Jazz in? _

Prowl’s vents gave a strangled cough as he subverted his fans’ sudden attempts to turn on in response to Jazz  _ just standing there.  _ Nevermind worrying about Smokescreen embarrassing him; he could do that all on his own!

“Goodness, are you alright?” Smokescreen asked, startled by the sound. He hadn’t noticed Jazz coming over but saw him as soon as he turned, just as Jazz had no doubt intended. He gave Jazz a thorough once-over, then looked at Prowl with a knowing glint in his optics. “Perhaps you’ve stood too close to the fountain and gotten something in your vents,” he said, smug satisfaction so thick in his voice Prowl was surprised his words didn’t turn to syrup. “You must go and sort yourself out. I’m sure I can manage in your absence.” 

For a second Prowl thought Smokescreen meant to send him away so he could talk to Jazz alone. He opened his mouth to protest, but hadn’t the faintest idea what to say. Indecision left him gaping foolishly, no sound emerging from his vocalizer. Prowl was sure he looked ridiculous, though it probably added to the impression that he was struggling with his air intake.

Smokescreen gave Prowl a small smirk, then turned to Jazz. “Would you mind helping him… get comfortable? I’m sure someone can relieve you of your burden to free your hands.” 

Prowl choked again, his engine stuttering at the very particular phrasing. Smokescreen was doing that on purpose! 

No sooner had Smokescreen spoken than two mechs eagerly rushed forward to take Jazz’s tray from him. Jazz relinquished it to the first, nodding his thanks to them both before bowing to Smokescreen. “I’ll have him back to you once he’s set to rights, your Highness.”

“You have my gratitude.” Smokescreen’s doorwings were practically vibrating as he rounded on Prowl to dismiss him. Prowl kept his expression as neutral as possible in the face of his barely contained mirth. “I look forward to seeing you once you’ve recovered.”

“Thank you, your Highness.”

Prowl turned on his heel so fast Jazz had to hurry to keep up as he all but ran out of the courtyard. “Hey, Prowl! Slow down!” he said once they were far enough away Smokescreen wouldn’t hear. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Prowl answered tersely, not stopping until they had escaped into the servants corridors and left the crowd behind. Just in time, as he could no longer keep his fans from coming on with a loud rattle for having been stifled so long. The strain on his systems made his plating rattle slightly, and Jazz’s hands coming to rest on his arm and right below his doorwings just made the tremors stronger. “I just need a moment.”

“Okay…” Jazz didn’t sound convinced. He didn’t remove his hands, either. Instead, he started rubbing gentle circles on Prowl’s back. That, surprisingly,  _ did  _ help. The soothing motions made it easier for his engine to settle back into a regular rhythm, his shaking tapering off before finally stopping entirely. 

“Thank you,” Prowl said, still aggravated over his loss of control. He and Smokescreen were going to have words about this. Choice words. “I’m much better now.”

“That’s a relief.” Jazz steered Prowl over to a stone banquette and urged him to sit down. “What happened?” 

Embarrassment overtook aggravation as Prowl took a seat. Jazz joined him, one hand still on his arm. Prowl reached up to remove it and wound up just holding it instead, brushing his fingers gently over the faint scratches and scuffs in Jazz’s paint. “I was… caught off guard,” he finally admitted. 

“Caught off guard?” Jazz didn’t pull away. Instead, he brought his other hand up to join the first. “By what?”

“By you,” Prowl answered simply.  _ Since the first time I saw you.  _ “I was caught off guard by you.”

This time it was Jazz’s fans that gave an aborted stutter. He laughed, the warm sound breaking the tension around them. “You should be really be more careful, Prowl. Some mechs might get the impression you were flirting, saying things like that.”

“Some mechs might get the impression  _ you  _ were flirting, the way you behave around them.” 

Some mechs might be hoping Jazz was flirting. 

“Well…” Jazz’s visor sparkled above their joined hands, drawing Prowl in closer. “Some mechs… might have promised to bring you back once you were feeling better.” He stood, pulling Prowl to his feet. “There’s going to be a sort of servants’ ball in the secondary courtyard after dinner, and I,” he raised Prowl’s arm to twirl once beneath it, “won’t have the Prince withholding my partner out of concern for his health!”

Prowl laughed, spinning Jazz a second time before releasing him. “Then let us return for now,” he agreed, setting off with a lightness in his step to match the floating feeling in his spark. “Promise you’ll save me a dance.”


	4. Chapter 4

“You? Why, you’d make a perfectly  _ dreadful  _ bondmate for the Prince.”

“Dreadful? Me?! I think you have me confused with your mirror!”

_ “Please,  _ as if I could ever mistake something as hideous as you for my own immaculate reflection.”

“You won’t look so immaculate grovelling on the floor at my feet, begging your new ruler to forgive all the horrible things you said about him!”

The distinctive whine of aerial thrusters whirring to life accompanied the equally impressive shrieking of the mech those thrusters belonged to. Prowl, Smokescreen, and practically everyone in attendance took several steps back, watching the ongoing argument — if the tantrum the two seekers were throwing could be called an argument — in silent fascination.

“I haven’t said anything about you that isn’t perfectly true,” the golden Sunstorm said haughtily with a dismissive flick of shining wings. “In any event,  _ I’m  _ hardly going to be the one scraping his chin on the tile.”

“Of course, how silly of me,” his brother, Starscream, drawled sarcastically, his dark face twisted into a petulant sneer. “You couldn’t possibly grovel once I’ve banished you from the kingdom!” 

Smokescreen continued to edge back until he was standing beside Prowl. “Primus,” he whispered, barely audible beneath the bickering pair. “Who do you suppose taught them how to behave?”

“No one, clearly.” Prowl stuck his foot out to the side to prevent Smokescreen from trying to hide behind him. “Don’t even think about it.”

_ “I’m  _ the elder!  _ I  _ should be the Prince’s bondmate!” Starscream’s clenched fists shook at his sides. Prowl was surprised to see him holding back. It wasn’t like he had any compunction against hitting his brother — Starscream shoving Sunstorm for ‘deliberately and maliciously’ clipping him with his wing in an attempt to ‘sabotage him’ had been the inciting incident.

“As the elder,  _ you’re  _ first in line to inherit the house and the title. You don’t  _ need  _ the Prince to secure your future!”

“You fool! That is precisely  _ why  _ the Prince should choose me! He’s here for the heir, not the unwanted spare!”

It was a unique situation, Prowl had to admit. Unlike other houses, the currently absent Lord had two potential heirs. Starscream was technically first in line, but his position wasn’t official; Sunstorm could supplant him at any time. Prowl had been confused to learn that initially. Why would the Lord leave such a thing in question?

Because neither was a suitable successor, apparently.

“I’m not unwanted! Am I, your Highness?”

Prowl had to stifle a laugh at the momentary flash of  _ panic!  _ in Smokescreen’s field, though to his credit he stood his ground as Sunstorm stalked over. The seeker fluttered his perfectly polished wings in what was probably meant to be a coquettish manner, but the effect was somewhat ruined by Starscream gagging and mockingly making the same motions behind him in a grossly exaggerated fashion.

“Tell me the truth,” Sunstorm simpered, stopping shy of actually touching Smokescreen but still well inside his personal space. “You’d chose me over that shrill, unmannered  _ heathen,  _ wouldn’t you?”

“Unmannered? Ha! Look who’s talking!” Starscream strutted up to Smokescreen’s other side, his wingspan forcing Prowl to step out of the way or be hit. “If you think about it, your Highness, I’m sure you’d agree  _ I  _ would make a much better bondmate than that dull, sycophantic  _ harpy.” _

“A voice like that, and he calls  _ me  _ the harpy!” Sunstorm flared his ailerons fitfully. “I am not dull!”

“Of course you aren’t,” Smokescreen said quickly, cutting in before Starscream could start up again. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen armor so resplendent!” Sunstorm preened, stepping back to give himself room to turn and show off his frame. “Nor,” he said to Starscream with a straight face Prowl couldn’t imagine how he was maintaining, “have I ever heard such dulcet tones from aerial or grounder!”

“Your Highness has an exquisite audial,” Starscream rasped, his tone grating on Prowl’s nerve-circuits. “Surely you have the wisdom to match when it comes to making a match!”

“Alas, that I should find myself in such an untenable position,” Smokescreen lamented, raising a hand to his face in a classical gesture of woe. Prowl saw his facade crack just long enough to grin at him behind his hand before he threw both his arms out wide, casting his voice to the high, domed ceiling above them. “For I am only one mech and cannot take two bondmates, though each be as perfect as the other!”

“But surely, Highness, you could choose one of us?”

“Yes,  _ surely,  _ you could choose me!”

“No! I fear I would feel too terrible, leaving one of you desolate.” Again Smokescreen posed dramatically, this time making a grand show of careful consideration. Prowl snuck a surreptitious glance at the crowd. Almost everyone in the house, guest and servant alike, was present now. Some were attempting to hide their amusement to varying degrees of success, while others wore their smiles openly. “If only I could be sure of the happiness of whomever I could not bond with!” 

Starscream and Sunstorm had no more control over their expressions than they did their tempers. Prowl could plainly see the calculating desperation on both their faces as they each struggled to find some way to convince Smokescreen to choose them over their ‘unlucky’ brother.

Smokescreen let them grind their gears for a moment, then exclaimed triumphantly, “But of course! I have the answer!”

“You do?”

“Do tell!”

“If I am to take one of you as my bondmate, then the other—” Smokescreen turned and, without warning, grabbed Prowl’s arm and pulled him forward “—shall have my most loyal and trusted friend!”

_ “WHAT?!” _

_"Him?!”_

“You are dead to me,” Prowl whispered out the corner of his mouth. 

Smokescreen just smiled wider, inordinately pleased with himself. “He is a marvelous mech! Hardworking, talented, and clever. Some might even say he’s handsome!”

“But he’s so  _ ordinary,”  _ Sunstorm protested, his lip curling like the word left a bad taste in his mouth. “A  _ common servant.” _

Prowl felt his irritation at Smokescreen redirecting itself. That kind of attitude was disgusting, and to say such things right in front of him, like he wasn’t even there? No. It didn’t matter that he was really a Prince; that was intolerably rude to anyone.

Pushed past the point of shock, he decided to join in the farce. “I promise I would do right by you,” he said, angling his doorwings back imploringly at Sunstorm. “I would make a good bondmate!”

“Ugh! What a horrible prospect,” Starscream shuddered.

Prowl turned his attention to him. “You would find me ever so loving and devoted,” he pleaded, as though bonding with Starscream was all he’d ever wanted in life. “You would never want for more!”

_ “I’d  _ sure want more.” 

“As would I.” 

Prowl almost lost his composure at the matching looks of displeasure on Sunstorm’s and Starscream’s faces, and saw Smokescreen holding back laughter as well. Were they reacting to the thought of bonding to a mere servant, or to agreeing with each other? 

“I look forward to that glorious day when I can prove myself to you,” Prowl said, falling back behind Smokescreen. It was almost a shame he wouldn’t be able to see them when he revealed his true identity. Then again, with Starscream’s voice, there was a good chance he’d still  _ hear  _ it.

“It’s settled then!” Smokescreen announced grandly. “But now I must confess myself famished! How soon is dinner to be served?”

With the Prince calling for it, naturally the answer was that dinner would be served right away. Prowl thought it was still a bit early, but no one seemed to mind in the aftermath of what had just transpired. They were all perfectly content to let the banquet serve as a distraction. Prowl took the chance to observe from the sidelines, making note of the mechs who stepped up to help keep things civil and those who tolerated or even supported the lordlings’ juvenile behavior. He was gratified to see the latter in the minority. Most of the the mechs at the table were merely humoring the two spoiled brats.

Although they didn’t devolve into another shouting match, Starscream and Sunstorm did continue their attempts to make the other look bad over the course of the meal. Sunstorm slipped a heaping spoonful of sodium chloride into the sweet aluminum blend Starscream was drinking at one point, which prompted him to violently spit out the next sip he took. Starscream retaliated by ‘accidentally’ spilling a plate of a light, cadmium-infused mousse onto Sunstorm’s pristine paint. It was nothing short of a miracle they refrained from attacking each other again. Perhaps they’d decided such displays reflected poorly on  _ both  _ of them, not realizing that their petty squabbling looked equally bad.

When the banquet was over, Starscream made it abundantly clear that servants were Not Welcome afterwards, so Prowl graciously offered to assist the house staff in clearing the table. Smokescreen complimented him on his humility and willingness to help, a subtle joke at the expense of their hosts that went right over their inflated heads (though several of the guests chuckled quietly).

The doors had scarcely closed behind them when the servants converged on Prowl.

“That was marvelous how the Prince handled—”

“—y’re always like that, nothing the Lord says makes any dif—”

“—not my place, but perhaps you could advise his Highness against bonding with either of—”

“For the good of the kingdom—”

“Alright, that’s enough! Give the mech some space.” Prowl relaxed for the first time that evening as the crowd parted for Jazz. “Come on, let’s leave the plates for a bit. What you need is a breath of fresh air and a shot of something fortifying.”

Prowl couldn’t bring himself to disagree. He let Jazz take his hand and lead him from the dining room, down a series of winding corridors and up a flight of stairs to a small balcony. Jazz must have prepared it in advance, because there was a plain bottle and a pair of modest cubes waiting for them when they arrived. 

“Here.” Jazz poured a liberal amount of a vibrant blue liquid into one of the cubes and handed it to Prowl. Prowl took it and waited, watching Jazz prepare his own by placing a small tablet in his cube and pouring the highgrade onto it where it fizzed and popped. “I’m sorry, I should have thought to ask. Would you like a sparkler too?”

“No, thank you.” Prowl wasn’t sure he should be drinking at all, but after what he’d just endured he felt he’d earned at least half a cube. He set himself a reminder to be sure a whole bottle would be waiting for Smokescreen when they got back to the palace for his pains. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

They stood there together, drinking slowly and enjoying the quiet. The occasional breeze was cool and refreshing, the perfect counterpoint to the heat of the highgrade. Prowl didn’t recognize the blend, but it was stronger than he’d anticipated. “This is quite good.”

“It’s nothing fancy, but it does the job. I smuggled it up here when I found out those two were going to be the only ones present.”

He’d figured Prowl would need it, in other words. Prowl approved of his foresight. “Do they always behave like that then, when the Lord is ill and unable to keep them in line?”

“Ill? Is  _ that  _ what they told you?” Jazz snickered. “The only illness the stupendously admirable Lord A-Plus Parenting suffers from is the occasional hangover, and I’m pretty sure I don’t need to tell you the reason for those.”

“Hardly. Starscream and Sunstorm are insolent, capricious, and vain, entirely self-obsessed and completely unsuited to any position of responsibility or authority.” Prowl was willing to lay a good deal of the blame for that at the feet of their creators, but at the same time understood that sometimes there really was no working with some mechs. Based on what he’d seen tonight, Prowl’s advice to the Lord would be to write both of them off, take a new mate, and try for a third creation. “But if he’s not ill…?”

“If he’s not ill, why isn’t he here protecting his interests?” Jazz shrugged. “He might not know he needed to. For  _ some  _ reason the Lord has a habit of taking long trips, and he doesn’t always take care to stay in contact while he’s away.”

“He’s in for a rather rude homecoming then,” Prowl said with a sly grin. “Somehow I doubt his Highness will have many nice things to say about either of his creations after tonight.”

“He had some nice things to say about you though.” Jazz slid closer to Prowl along the balcony railing, half-full cube held high in his hand. “A toast! To a marvelous mech who is hardworking, talented, clever — and handsome.”

The way Jazz was looking at him made Prowl’s spark pulse faster. “My physical appearance is utterly unremarkable next to yours,” he replied, returning the toast. “To a mech with infectious energy and optimism: intelligent, compassionate, and the epitome of beauty and grace.”

“We met because I literally  _ ran into you,”  _ Jazz laughed when Prowl mentioned grace. “I was splattered all over in gelled energon, and since then you’ve seen me blackened with soot, covered in soap, and littered with dings and scratches. I have a hard job and the marks to prove it.” He put down his cube and stood away from the railing, putting his perceived flaws on display. “I’m hardly beautiful, Prowl.”

Prowl set his cube aside as well and reached out to take Jazz’s hands. The same scuffs and scratches he’d traced the night before were still there, and then some, but Prowl didn’t see them as blemishes. “You are beautiful to me,” Prowl told him honestly, looking deep into the crystal blue of Jazz’s visor. “Both in frame and in spark.” Someone was coming. Prowl could hear them on the stairs, probably one of the servants coming to get them. In the brief moment they had left, Prowl pulled Jazz in close enough to rest his chevron against the crest on Jazz’s helm. “Running into you is the best thing that’s happened to me since arriving from the countryside.”

Jazz didn’t seem able to look away. “Prowl… I—” 

“Jazz? Did you two come up here?”

Whatever Jazz had been about to say, Prowl didn’t get to hear it. Jazz pulled away, his hands sliding out of Prowl’s as he went to collect his cube and the bottle of engex. “We’re here,” he called to the mech on the stairs. “We were just about to head back.”

Prowl retrieved his cube as well. “You can tell me more about the house later,” he said to Jazz, changing the subject as they headed inside. “Though I expect his Highness has already made his decision regarding the heirs.”

“I should hope so!” Jazz nodded fervently. His field was soft where it brushed tentatively against Prowl’s. “I don’t think the kingdom could survive either of those two in the palace.”

Prowl let his field expand, inviting Jazz’s touch. “Agreed.”

***

The entertainment at the eighth ball was a concert, put on by a hired troupe and the Lords and heir themselves. Prowl found the whole thing more interesting technically than emotionally moving. He appreciated the skill it demonstrated and the effort they put into it, but it just wasn’t to his personal tastes. Too much synth and Sprechstimme, not enough flow or melody.

He said as much to Jazz later while they finished preparing the transport to take him and Smokescreen back to the palace. “The subject matter wasn’t an issue. The concept of exploring political themes through music is intriguing.” Lord Megatron had written the lyrics himself, inspired by his recent work in labor reform, and Prowl had to admit the mech did have a way with words. “But I would have preferred to hear them presented as  _ music, _ not sung poetry.”

“I can understand that. What sounds good to one mech doesn’t always appeal to another.” Jazz loaded the last of the now-empty white phosphorous containers from the kitchen onto the transport. “Part of that comes down to frame specs. Lord Soundwave has highly advanced audial pickups and relays, and so does the heir. They’re able to play and enjoy a much wider range of frequencies than most mechs.”

That would explain why Prowl had gotten the impression of missing notes, if they were outside his ability to perceive. “Perhaps it would have been wiser to perform something intended for general consumption then, given their audience.”

“Maybe, though that style is supposed to sound a little rough in general.” Jazz shut the rear compartment and came around in front of Prowl, looking past him at something over his shoulder. Prowl glanced back and saw Smokescreen heading their way. “Looks like it’s time for you to go,” he said with a subdued smile. “Remind me to perform something more polished for you tomorrow, now that I know you have an interest.”

“I will.” Reluctantly he bid Jazz goodbye as he slipped away, leaving him to assist Smokescreen into the transport. “How was your evening?” Prowl asked once they were underway.

“Quite nice, actually.” Smokescreen sounded pleasantly surprised. “I was concerned Lord Megatron would use the entire evening as a platform to promote his latest agenda, but he actually refrained from dominating our entire conversation.”

“He can be a force to be reckoned with, yes.” Prowl had already known about Megatron’s propensity for speeches, and it was good to hear he was capable of ceding the spotlight to others, even if he didn’t do so often. “And your thoughts on the young Lord?”

“Another for the short list, I believe. That gives you one, two, three,” Smokescreen counted off on his fingers, “four good prospects, and two houses still to visit! Honestly, I was expecting the selection to be much worse.”

Prowl sighed, wishing he felt as happy about that particular stroke of good luck. “I was as well, though I must admit a part of me was hoping for something… more.”

“More? What more are you looking for? Any one of them would make a fine mate!”

“Any one of them would make a fine political partner, yes.” Prowl would still need to consider the most advantageous and compatible among them, naturally, but there was no one he absolutely couldn’t live with. There was no reason not to choose one of them, except that he couldn’t see himself forming a deep personal connection or friendship with any of them.

A prince of the realm didn’t have the luxury of love. Prowl knew that. It didn’t stop his spark from longing for someone who could be more than just a partner, someone who could be a  _ true  _ bondmate in every sense of the word.

It didn’t stop him from yearning for one mech in particular.

Smokescreen was no fool. “You hoped you could make a love match,” he said, his voice gentling as he took in the frustration and disappointment Prowl couldn’t keep from his field. “There’s still a chance you know,” he tried to encourage him. “One of the last two heirs might be exactly who you’ve been looking for.”

“They won’t be.” Prowl sighed again and hung his helm, his doorwings sagging behind him. “Neither of them will be Jazz."

“Ahh.” Smokescreen didn’t seem surprised. “I had wondered.”

“You knew?”

“No. I said I’d wondered.” Smokescreen gave Prowl an appraising look. “But I know you. We’ve been friends long enough for me to tell the difference between a passing interest and a lasting one, and you’ve never talked so much or so fondly of anyone as you do of Jazz.”

“I don’t talk about him that much.” Prowl had been deliberately  _ not  _ talking about Jazz so Smokescreen wouldn’t have an opening to tease him. “We’ve been too busy discussing potential bondmates.”

“Yes, and every time we do, you describe the qualities you’re looking for as though you have a template in mind — a very specific template.”

Prowl didn’t have a good argument for that, since it was true, but he’d been careful not to mention Jazz by name. “I have a  _ general  _ template in mind, yes. There are certain qualities any bondmate I take must have to be a successful consort.”

“All of which Jazz possesses, am I right?” Smokescreen started listing them off. “He’s hardworking, willing to see tasks through even if they are difficult or unpleasant, possesses a keen optic for reading and evaluating other mechs, has an interest in politi—”

“You’ve barely spoken with him!” Prowl protested. “How would you know if he has those qualities or not?” 

“Because,” and Smokescreen’s expression almost dared Prowl to deny it, “you have the same look on your face when you’re describing the mate you’re looking for that you get when you’re thinking about him.”

“I… I suppose you could be right about that,” Prowl conceded. Someday he really ought to stop being so surprised by how perceptive Smokescreen was. “But it hardly matters. There is one crucial quality that he lacks.”

“And what quality is that?”

“Noble lineage.” Jazz was a servant, and that was the plain truth of it. No amount of wishing on Prowl’s part could change that. “Even if he is perfect in every other way,” and he was; beautifully, wonderfully perfect, “he doesn’t come from a prestigious sparkline.”

“So what?”

Prowl blinked, not sure he’d heard correctly. “So… what?”

“Yes: so what? One of the things you’ve been worrying about is finding a bondmate with a family that won’t cause you more grief than they’re worth. You said Jazz’s creators were in the Well and that he doesn’t have any siblings to help him with his debts.” Smokescreen’s voice wasn’t without sympathy, but he also sounded excited. “He doesn’t have any strings or baggage.”

“Other than those debts,” Prowl said, already anticipating Smokescreen’s response to that. “Which I could pay off, yes, I’m aware. But how would I explain my choice? How could I justify choosing Jazz over the most eligible mechs in the kingdom?”

“Prowl… you don’t  _ have  _ to justify your choice. Did you really think that you did? Primus.” Smokescreen shook his helm in an almost despairing way. “You’re not a diplomat anymore, you’re the  _ prince.  _ You aren’t bonding to cement an alliance or a treaty, you’re bonding so there’s a legal heir to the throne.”

“True, but I still have an obligation to—”

“You have an obligation to pick someone capable of handling the position,” Smokescreen interrupted with a hint of exasperation, “which happens to include picking someone  _ you’re  _ compatible with. And you do get along awfully well with Jazz. Let me try putting it this way: what  _ position _ would you like to see him in?”

Prowl’s doorwings flew back in surprise, hearing the question in a whole new way. “That’s really an option?” Oh, how he wanted it to be! He was almost afraid to believe it. But everything about Smokescreen’s frame language and field was honest and encouraging. “I thought the purpose of these evenings was to meet the heirs and choose one of them as my bondmate.”

“Yes and no,” Smokescreen said with a casual shrug of his doorwings. “The advisors decided having you choose from among the noble heirs would be the best way to ensure you found someone suitable, quickly. Which, by the way,” he grinned, “you did. He just isn’t who you thought he’d be."

“No, he isn’t,” Prowl agreed, finally allowing himself a small smile. “He’s better than I ever thought he would be.”

“Then stop looking for reasons not to and ask him to be your bondmate already!” Smokescreen clapped a hand on Prowl’s shoulder. “And hope that he says yes.”


	5. Chapter 5

The logistics of actually proposing to Jazz weren’t quite as simple as Smokescreen made the task out to be. In his enthusiasm, he’d conveniently overlooked one tiny, but fairly significant, detail: Jazz thought Prowl was the Prince’s valet, not the Prince himself.

It hadn’t taken long for Prowl to realize that, and even less time to start worrying about it. He might have convinced himself out of hand that Jazz would reject him once he knew the truth, if not for Smokescreen refusing to leave him until he came up with a plan and making him swear to see it through.

Sometimes having a friend that cared so much was incredibly annoying.

The following night, in the same spirit of being helpful, Smokescreen tried to hurry Prowl off to the kitchen before they even went inside. Prowl peremptorily commandeered one of the mechs taking care of their transport and delegated the task of delivering the warning about incendiary aspic to him. “However things turn out, I will still have to deal with this family in the future,” he told Smokescreen firmly. “I will not risk offending them by not being present when you are introduced.”

“They won’t be offended—”

“That I attended a party at their home in disguise, then used that disguise to avoid them?” Prowl said archly, and Smokescreen had the grace to dip his doorwings in deference. “Besides, I would prefer to speak with Jazz after dinner, when he is less likely to be called away.” Prowl didn’t want to be rushed or worrying about interruptions while he looked for just the right moment to explain things. If he was going to propose, he wanted to do it right.

“As long as you don’t try to talk yourself out of it between now and then.” Resettling his doorwings at the proper, princely angle, Smokescreen turned towards the house. “Do get the door for me, won’t you?”

Prowl made a face at him before arranging his features into an appropriately neutral expression and opened the door.

As first impressions went, Optimus Prime made a good one. The lord, for a lord he was despite preferring his title of office, dispensed with any formal mode of address right away and insisted that Smokescreen simply call him Optimus. His bondmate, the Lady Elita, did the same, and their creation even went so far as to assert that he would only answer to Hot Rod, not Rodimus, which Prowl could tell amused Smokescreen.

Hot Rod was clearly younger than any of the other heirs they had met. Optimus and Elita didn’t say, but Prowl suspected that he was only just old enough to be eligible. It was refreshing to listen to him, as his speech was unpolished and obviously unrehearsed. Actually, none of them seemed to be going out of their way impress Smokescreen. They simply presented themselves as they were, leaving him to decide what to make of them.

Shortly before the meal was due to start, Hot Rod begged leave to show Smokescreen his new hoverboard. Prowl thought he would be left to his own devices at that point, but as they hurried off with Elita’s admonishment to  _ look only! _ Optimus surprised him by addressing him.

“I hope you’ve had a chance to enjoy these evenings,” he said, his deep voice warm and pleasant. “Did you accompany his Highness from the countryside, or did you enter his service recently?”

“Both,” Prowl answered, ironically truthful. “I’ve known him a long time but was not his valet until recently.” 

“I am glad to hear he did not make the journey here alone. It was very sudden and unfortunate, what happened to his late family, and the changes he has had to make cannot have been easy for him.”

Prowl struggled to come up with an appropriate response, one that wouldn’t give away how much he personally appreciated hearing someone acknowledge that. He hadn’t been close to the relatives he’d lost, but having his entire life irrevocably turned upside-down overnight…  “It has been difficult.”

“I imagine it will continue to be for some time yet,” Optimus said solemnly. “He could use the strength of a bondmate that can support him.”

“My Lord?” From any other mech, Prowl would have been sure that was a segue into a speech extolling the virtues of his creation, but somehow this felt like just the opposite.

“Optimus,” the mech corrected gently. “Rodimus is a bright and generous spark. However, he still has much to learn. It pleases me to see them getting along so well, and it would honor me greatly if his Highness were to choose him for his mate, but I would caution against a decision made in haste.”

Prowl could hardly miss the subtext of  _ that.  _ He couldn’t very well assure Optimus that the Prince — that he — had already made his decision, but he could indicate he understood he was meant to pass along the message. “Wise words. I’m sure his Highness will agree.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Optimus smiled, his armor relaxing subtly. “I must see to my other guests. Feel free to partake of anything that catches your optic.”

“Thank you,” Prowl said with a bow, waiting for Optimus to leave him before straightening. Rather than taking advantage of the offer to enjoy some of the appetizers, however, Prowl left the main hall and went in search of the one thing that had well and truly caught his optic.

“I think I saw him helping with decorations outside,” one of the chef’s helpers told him when he asked after Jazz in the kitchen. “There are areas there meant for resting and taking light refreshment during breaks between dances.”

“Including some secluded spots for couples to slip away to for a quiet moment, perhaps?” Prowl smiled at the flush of excitement in the femme’s field. So he wasn’t the only one hoping for a romantic rendezvous. “I don’t suppose you might be willing to help me?”

A short while later Prowl left the kitchen with an assortment of tasty treats tucked away in his subspace in addition to the bottle of highgrade he’d brought with him — just the things for a small, private picnic in the garden. Jazz had probably volunteered to help outside so he could scout a place for the two of them just like he’d prepared the balcony, but Prowl wanted to make sure. He definitely wanted a well secluded spot tonight.

Jazz was easy to find once Prowl reached the gardens. He was standing at the top of a ladder hanging lights. The long strands clinked softly against his plating as he moved, chiming louder when he noticed Prowl and waved.

“Are you decorating the garden or yourself?” Prowl asked, nodding to the lights looped over Jazz’s arms to keep them from tangling his feet while he worked. “You look as gaudy as the noble trendsetters indoors.”

“Splendid, isn’t it?” Jazz shimmied his shoulders, making the lights swing and sparkle. “It needs a catchy name though. Something like ‘Cloak of a Thousand Stars’, or ‘Luminous Rain’.”

“Both viable options, though a more fitting description might be ‘Mobile Utility Closet’.” Prowl reached out to stabilize the ladder under Jazz’s antics. “Do try not to injure yourself before the second half of the evening. I was hoping to spend some time with you.”

“Well, I do owe you a report and a performance.” Jazz stepped down a rung on the ladder and brushed Prowl’s shoulder with the trailing lights. “I’ve set up a nice, quiet spot for us away from the other private hideaways. Wear your best and meet me by the reticulated rutile hedge. I’ll be waiting for you.”

“I look forward to it.”

Prowl made sure Jazz was steady on the ladder before letting go, then went to track down his wayward ‘master’. With any luck Smokescreen and Hot Rod wouldn’t have taken the hoverboard for a spin despite being told not to. Prowl could all too easily see his friend taking advantage of his temporary station to do something crazy like that for the sheer fun of it.

Fortunately when he found them he also found Elita. She was watching from a discreet distance as they exclaimed over the hoverboard, near enough to stop them from doing anything rash if necessary. “Can I leave them in your hands?” she asked when Prowl drew up beside her. “I really should be getting back to Optimus, but I didn’t want to leave them unsupervised.”

“They won’t be,” Prowl promised. 

Twice he had to stop them from taking the hoverboard for a joyride, both times at Hot Rod’s instigation. Smokescreen was obviously tempted, but Prowl’s presence was a strong deterrent, and Hot Rod didn’t continue to press him once it was two against one.

“He’s very… excitable,” Prowl commented on their way back for the banquet portion of the evening. Hot Rod had already run off ahead of them, eager to get there first. “Very high energy.”

“He is that.” Smokescreen walked at a much more sedate pace. He didn’t need to hurry. As the guest of honor, they couldn’t very well start without him. “He enjoys moving and going fast. Sitting around for lengthy discussions and negotiations isn’t something he seems well suited to, or has much interest in.”

“There is time for him to take such interests yet.”

“Time, yes, but what is the likelihood?” Smokescreen chuckled, remembering something. “Do you know what he said to me? ‘You’re kind of cool. It’s a shame you have to be the Prince.’ Can you believe that?”

“He said that?” Prowl asked over Smokescreen’s laughter. “Really?”

“He did! When I asked him what he meant, he said that I had too many responsibilities to have any fun and he wouldn’t want a job like that — or be bonded to anyone who did.”

Now Prowl was able to laugh along with Smokescreen. “How very convenient! Optimus rather obliquely asked me to advise you not to choose him as well.”

“Well, that settles that then! Not that it wasn’t already.” Smokescreen’s broad smile took on a bit of a devious tilt. “Did you find Jazz?”

Prowl ignored him. “We really shouldn’t keep them waiting,” he said, speeding up slightly. “Coming, your Highness?”

Smokescreen snickered as he sped up to match. “You’re not going to get out of telling me how it went, you know.” He did know, but Prowl continued not to acknowledge that fact. The less he let himself think about it now, the less nervous he would be meeting Jazz later.

To that end, Prowl focused his full attention on his duties during dinner. It was an easy way to distract himself, and the conversation was pleasant. Hot Rod continued to be exuberantly (and slightly irreverently) entertaining, and Optimus had the kind of voice Prowl didn’t think one could ever grow tired of listening to. All in all they successfully drowned out his worries until the end of the meal.

Afterwards, everyone moved to the ballroom. This time when Smokescreen insisted on leaving him behind, Prowl let him. “Good luck,” Smokescreen whispered, pressing encouragement in his EM field. “I’ll talk to you later!”

Prowl knew Jazz had been joking when he’d said to ‘wear his best’ but he still checked to make sure his plating was pristine before walking over to the designated hedge. The criss-crossing rutile spears formed a net-like lattice too thick to see through in most places, but Prowl managed to spot a flash of white behind the rusty red. 

“Jazz?” 

“Prowl!” The patch of white moved and a second later Jazz’s helm peeked out through a break in the metallic formation. “Back here — follow me!” He led Prowl through a series of turns to a small clearing at the base of the manor walls. A familiar looking string of lights hung overhead, their soft twinkling illuminating the space and the makeshift seating Jazz had smuggled in around an equally makeshift table.

“It’s not much,” he said, lifting the covering off a plate of delicate okenite crystal clusters, “but I thought we could pretend it was an assortment.”

“Why pretend?” Prowl pulled his additions to the picnic out of subspace. “Now it is an assortment.”

“Wow! Where did you get all this?”

“Where else? The kitchen staff were very obliging.”

“I’ll say!” Jazz stared at the goodies, then looked at Prowl. “Are you sure this is alright? That highgrade is pretty fancy.”

“I may have brought that with me,” Prowl admitted with a small smile. “I wanted something special tonight.”

“Oh? Why?” Jazz returned his smile with a warm grin as he claimed one of the two chairs. “Is tonight special?”

“I hope so.” Prowl’s doorwings fluttered nervously behind him. He forced them to still and sat down, looking at Jazz across the table. He looked incredible in the low light. The rich blue of his visor sparkled with life and curiosity, and Prowl felt himself getting lost in it. His words caught in his vocalizer, the speech he had planned forgotten.

Jazz picked up a soft silicate puff. “It already is,” he said, reaching over to press the pastry to Prowl’s lips. Prowl parted them automatically and a second later felt the light confection melting in his mouth. “You make every night special for me.”

Prowl wanted so much to say the same, but no sooner had he finished the first treat than Jazz pressed another on him. “Which do you want first?” he asked, pouring out the highgrade while Prowl savored the oxidized silver-encrusted energon gel. “The local gossip on the Prime and his family, or that song I promised you?”

“You don’t have to do that,” Prowl said as soon as he’d swallowed. “Really.”

“But I want to.” Jazz handed Prowl his cube. “Don’t you want to hear what poetry put to music can really sound like?”

How could he refuse him? Prowl gave in. “I would be honored if you would show me.”

“So formal!” Jazz laughed, then stood from the table. “Try not to judge too harshly.”

Then he opened his mouth and began to sing.

Prowl felt the world slow to hear the sound. Jazz’s speaking voice was already beautiful; like this, it made Prowl’s spark ache. The lyrics weren’t important — the real poetry was Jazz himself. The way he sang, the way he moved, everything about watching and listening to him affected Prowl in ways he’d never thought to experience.

The lights above them shimmered over Jazz’s plating as he swayed, gently dancing with him. Fluid and spontaneous as he was, he never once endangered the table or himself. He moved with total awareness of everything around him, occasionally meeting Prowl’s optics where he sat, transfixed. His song rose and fell with his steps, creating the illusion that he was literally carrying the melody, weaving it into a tapestry and wrapping Prowl in it. Time dilated and disappeared as the song wound through every fiber of his frame. 

Prowl knew it would have to come to an end eventually, but he never wanted it to. He wanted to hold onto this marvel, this  _ mech,  _ forever.

He was still staring when Jazz stilled and the last strains of music finally faded away. Jazz didn’t seem to mind, if the smile on his face was any indication. “Well?” He sounded slightly breathless. “What do you say?”

Prowl couldn’t say anything. He had no words to express his feelings, no way to tell Jazz all the things spinning through his processor and spark. 

“That bad, was it?” Jazz asked, smile still firmly in place as he teased Prowl over his speechlessness. “At least tell me what I could have done to improve my performance!”

“Nothing. You were perfect.” Prowl stood, slowly, reverently raising one hand to Jazz’s face. Prowl could feel him trembling faintly beneath his fingers as he traced his thumb over the curve of his cheek. “You  _ are  _ perfect.”

Now it was Jazz who couldn’t seem to find his words. His field was thick and heavy, every bit as heavy as Prowl’s, and the air between them crackled like a storm front where the two electromagnetic pressure systems met and swirled against each other. It was dizzying, intoxicating.

Hardly conscious of doing so, Prowl trailed his hand down the column of Jazz’s throat and over his chest to settle above his spark, the other lifting to rest above his own.

Jazz’s visor flashed with surprise. “Prowl?”

“I would have you with me always,” Prowl said gently, completely unplanned and unable to stop himself. “Would you consent to bond with me?”

“Would I… do you mean… are you serious?” Jazz didn’t pull away, but his field churned with such a chaotic mix of emotions Prowl couldn’t even begin to identify them all. “Prowl, are you really proposing to me?”

“I am,” Prowl said, though as his capacity for rational thought returned he realized he’d managed to go about doing so all backwards. He still hadn’t told Jazz who he was! “I apologize if I’ve startled or offended you—”

“No! Prowl, no, I’m not — well, yes, I’m startled, but I’m not offended,” Jazz stammered out, then, as if only now noticing how they were positioned, stepped back. Prowl’s hand hovered in the air between them, then slowly drifted back to his side. “I just… wasn’t expecting something like that so suddenly.”

“I didn’t mean for it to be so sudden.” Torn between worry that he’d ruined everything and hope that the fact Jazz hadn’t immediately rejected him meant he still had a chance, Prowl forged ahead. “I had intended—”

“Oh!” Jazz exclaimed, interrupting him. “Special! You said you wanted tonight to be special. That’s why, isn’t it? You were planning to propose all along.”

“Yes.” He’d meant to do a better job of it, but yes. "Though there is something I need to tell you. Something important.”

“Something—” Jazz’s voice cracked, his visor going pale. “Oh no.”

Those two small words immediately triggered a cascade of possibilities in Prowl’s processor, each one more hopeless than the last. He forced himself not to voice any of them, refusing to give in to his rising panic that Jazz was about to refuse him. “Please, if there is any part of you willing to consider me as your mate, hear me out first,” he begged. “You don’t have to give me an answer tonight, only listen to what I have to say and promise me you’ll think on it.”

“No, Prowl, there’s…” Jazz shook his helm. “There’s something  _ I  _ need to tell  _ you.”  _

“Then tell me.” Whatever it was, it couldn’t make Prowl change his mind. He was certain of it. “Please. Tell me.”

“I can’t,” Jazz said, shaking his helm again. “Not tonight. I need time, I need to… to think about how to say it. How to tell you.”

He sounded afraid. But afraid of what? Of Prowl rejecting him, or of telling Prowl he was the one being rejected? “Will you at least let me speak?”

“Yes. I will.” Jazz’s voice was firm. “But not tonight.”

What could Prowl do? He didn’t want Jazz to leave without knowing the truth, but pressing him further now when he’d asked him to wait might drive him away. “I wish you would let me tell you,” he said quietly, trying one last time. “It might make things easier.”

“Prowl,  _ please.”  _ Jazz backed further away, and Prowl refused to give in to the desire to chase after him. “I don’t want to say anything I might regret in haste.”

Did that mean he was considering saying yes after all? Prowl’s spark leapt again. “Nor do I wish you to feel I had forced you into such a position,” he said, taking a step back as well. It was the hardest thing he had ever done. “I will say no more on the matter until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow.” Some of the tension left his frame, but Prowl could see Jazz hadn’t relaxed fully. “I… Would you excuse me for a moment?”

“Of course.” If Jazz needed time to settle and regain his composure, Prowl wasn’t about to stop him. Not when he was the one at fault for getting so spectacularly carried away. “Take as long as you need.”

Jazz hesitated by the hedge, his gaze flickering fitfully between Prowl and a point somewhere on the ground near his own feet. Then, with a soft, “Thank you,” he was gone.

He never came back.


	6. Chapter 6

The ride back to the palace was a quiet one. Prowl watched the question die on Smokescreen’s lips the moment his friend saw him. He probably assumed Jazz had turned Prowl down, not that he’d disappeared, but Prowl didn’t bother to correct him. He wasn’t ready to talk about it.

It wasn’t until they were back in his suite at the palace and Smokescreen pulled him into an unprompted hug that Prowl finally broke down, shaking in the comforting embrace.

“I’m so sorry,” Smokescreen said gently over the sound of Prowl’s shuddering engine. “I really am. I thought for sure he would say yes. Did he give you a reason for his refusal?”

“No.” Prowl’s voice was trembling like the doorwings on his back. Smokescreen led him over to a couch where he practically collapsed. “He didn’t even precisely say, ‘no’. But he vanished, Smokescreen. He said he had something to tell me, that he needed time to figure out how, and then he vanished.”

“Really? But that’s good! That’s much better than I was imagining.” Smokescreen patted Prowl’s arm reassuringly. “Maybe he’ll have your ‘yes’ tomorrow.”

“He could still refuse me tomorrow. If I see him at all.” Prowl had waited a long time in the hidden alcove in the garden, wondering how long he should stay, the hope that Jazz would come back dying a little more with every passing minute. Eventually he’d been forced to conclude that he wasn’t going to. Jazz was well and truly gone. “What if he decides to avoid me completely? What if he isn’t even  _ there?”  _

“He  _ will  _ be. He said he had something to tell you, didn’t he? Well, didn’t he?” Smokescreen fixed Prowl with a stern look until he nodded. “Right. So he’ll be there. What mech would be fool enough not to give the Prince a solid answer?”

“A mech who still doesn’t know who I am might not feel such an obligation,” Prowl said haltingly, hiding his face in his hands. “I didn’t get a chance to tell him.”

“You didn’t—?!  _ Prowl!”  _ Smokescreen groaned.  _ “How  _ did you manage to propose without telling him who you were first?”

“He sang to me.” The beauty of that moment still shone in Prowl’s memory. “He sang to me and I forgot everything I had planned to say.” Smokescreen didn’t say anything. The silence dragged on until Prowl couldn’t take it any longer. “What?” he said, his voice pleading. “I know I made a mistake. Is it too much to ask for a chance to explain? To see him just one more time?”

“You really love him.” There was a look of quiet awe on Smokescreen’s face. “Don’t you?”

Prowl hung his helm. “Yes,” he said, wishing he’d said those words to Jazz. “Yes, I love him.”

“Then tomorrow, tell him love made an idiot of you and apologize. There’s one more ball — I’ll play the Prince one last time while you,” Smokescreen slid off the couch and knelt in front of Prowl to meet his downcast gaze, “go after  _ your  _ prince.”

“…Thank you,” Prowl said, his spirits finally lifting a little as he raised his head. “What would I do without you?”

“Consign yourself to be miserable, probably,” Smokescreen winked. “Come. You should get some rest.”

Prowl could go along with that. After tonight, he more than needed it, and tomorrow was going to be the most important day of his life.

***

As the final manor came into view, Prowl had to remind himself not to take off as soon as the doors of the transport opened. However much he wanted to start looking for Jazz right away, he had responsibilities he had to see to first. 

“I’ll send you to the kitchen as soon as I possibly can,” Smokescreen promised. “And never mind about the aspic. I’m somewhat disappointed it hasn’t blown up.”

“It did blow up the second night,” Prowl said, recalling Jazz scrubbing up the aftermath of the disaster. “But I suppose you meant at the table.”

“I know it would be a ghastly mess, but part of me can’t help but think it would be fun.” Smokescreen’s optics glittered with mischief. “It’s really a shame it didn’t blow up on Starscream and Sunstorm.”

“So they could have even  _ more  _ cause to hate us?” Prowl said with a shudder to disguise his laughter at the mental image. “We’ll have made enemies for life, once I reveal myself.”

_ “You  _ will have, anyway.”

“We  _ both  _ will have.” Petty as the seekers were, there was no way they wouldn’t hold it against everyone involved for making fools of them… except themselves.

“Oh dear. However will I survive?” This time Prowl did let a small chuckle escape, and Smokescreen smiled. “There. That’s better.”

Prowl smiled back. “Thank you.” He wouldn’t be able to completely relax until he found Jazz, but he appreciated Smokescreen’s efforts to keep him grounded. “Really. Thank you.”

No longer quite so anxious, Prowl was able to hold onto his calm when they stopped moving. He was not going to panic while he assisted Smokescreen down from the transport. He was not going to start constructing worst-case scenarios as they entered the manor. He was not going to succumb to his fears while they wandered around the reception area. 

Slowly. 

In circles. 

With no sign of the Lord. 

His patience cracked.

“Your highness,” Prowl said after the latest round of generic pleasantries, “perhaps I ought to see to the preparations?”

“Oh? What preparations would those be?” a cultured voice asked behind them. A streamlined blue and white mech emerged from the crowd, the white half-mask over the top of his face allowing his gold optics to shine through with curiosity. “I would like to think I had made all the necessary preparations for this evening.”

“Lord Mirage, I presume?” Smokescreen asked after the barest of hesitations.

“You presume correctly.” The Lord’s lips widened fractionally into a small smile. “I hope you haven’t found anything lacking?”

“Not at all!” Smokescreen replied smoothly, then posed a question of his own. “Is the young Lord nearby?”

“He is not, but for the best of reasons: the young Lord is spending the evening with his newly betrothed.”

“Oh!” Smokescreen sounded as surprised as Prowl felt. They had known before arriving that the circumstances of this particular house were not typical: the late Lord’s only sparkling had been too young to inherit when he and his bondmate had perished, and their will had stipulated that the unbonded Mirage, a close friend of the family, should maintain stewardship until the young Lord came of age and took a bondmate. They had expected to meet him tonight, but if the young Lord was recently engaged… “Is this evening to be purely a social visit then?”

“It doesn’t have to be. Their happy union spells the end of my duties, after all.” With a movement so subtle it looked almost unconscious, yet too deliberate to be anything but calculated, Mirage posed himself elegantly in front of Smokescreen. “The uses to which I can put the skills I have learned in the service of the house are many.”

Smokescreen’s doorwings twitched with interest.  _ That  _ was unexpected! If they had still been evaluating Prowl’s options, Mirage had experience none of his other prospects did. Prowl could practically see the wheels starting to spin in his friend’s processor, analyzing and assessing the mech before them in case— No. Mirage could be perfect in every way possible and it wouldn’t matter.  _ He wasn’t Jazz.  _

And Jazz hadn’t said ‘no’ yet. 

Prowl fanned his own doorwings to draw Smokescreen’s attention. “Your Highness? The preparations?”

“Of course, yes. I’m afraid I must admit to complicating your dinner arrangements,” Smokescreen told Mirage. “I was just about to send my valet to be certain of the chef.”

A thread of interest wound its way through Mirage’s carefully controlled field. “Have you brought something to share with us?” 

“I hope you don’t mind my taking the liberty.” It wasn’t an apology, though it implied one. “It’s a regional specialty I’ve grown fond of.”

“Then I look forward to trying it.” 

Smokescreen took that as the cue it was to dismiss Prowl. “Make sure the kitchen staff are prepared to handle the dish,” he said while simultaneously making a discreet shooing motion where Mirage couldn’t see. “It needs to be perfect if it’s to catch on locally.”

“Of course, your Highness,” Prowl said, acknowledging both the verbal command and the signal to ignore it. Then he left them, his entire focus set on finding Jazz.

He would have followed a server to the kitchen as usual to begin his search, but strangely, none of them were leaving the reception area. When their trays were empty, they simply stepped off to a side room. When Prowl looked, he discovered a series of dumbwaiters along the wall supplying everything they needed to restock and return to mingling among the crowd. He couldn’t help being a little impressed.

“Excuse me,” Prowl asked the next server to come in, a mech he’d seen come and go a couple of times already. He hadn’t seen as many servants here compared to the other houses. Perhaps that had to do with not needing to rotate out to walk to the kitchen. “I was hoping you could help me locate someone.”

“Maybe.” The mech paused in his task briefly to look at Prowl. “But I am very busy. I’m afraid I can’t leave the serving area.”

“That’s fine.” Prowl didn’t need an escort. As long as the mech told him where to go, he would find his way on his own. “Can you tell me where I might find Jazz?”

“Jazz?” the servant repeated blankly. The lack of recognition in his voice made Prowl’s spark sink. “I’m sorry, I don’t know anyone by that name. What does he look like?”

“Black and white, like myself,” Prowl said, hoping the house staff just wasn’t fully acquainted with the temporary help. “His helm is black and he wears a blue visor.”

“I’m sorry,” the server repeated, no hint of familiarity in his optics. “I haven’t seen anyone like that all day. Try asking one of the others.” And with that, he filled the last corner of his tray and took himself back out to the party.

Prowl asked the next three mechs the same question. Each time the conversation was almost exactly the same. Feeling desperate, Prowl gave up on the servers and set off for the kitchen, where he was surprised to discover that it was minimally staffed as well. The space was every bit as large as the kitchens he’d been in the last several nights, but here the vats and stoves were overseen by only a third of the usual number of mechs, and some weren’t even regulars. Everyone on cleaning duty was wearing something other than the house silver and blue. 

Encouraged by Jazz’s friendly interactions with his fellow temp workers in previous houses, Prowl approached them first. “Excuse me,” he asked the femme at the end of the line of sinks, “have you seen Jazz at all today?”

“Jazz… black and white, isn’t he?” she asked, and Prowl nodded hopefully. “I’ve worked with him once or twice, but I don’t think he’s here.”

“I know Jazz,” one of the others spoke up, eavesdropping on the conversation. “But she’s right, he’s not here. I’ve been working since this morning, and I haven’t seen him all day.”

“Oh.” Prowl’s spark twisted painfully. He almost forgot to thank them both as he slowly backed away, struggling to think past the fog in his processor. He managed to mumble something before staggering out into the corridor where he leaned heavily against the wall, attempting to steady himself. It didn’t help. Jazz wasn’t here. He hadn’t come after all, and it was all his fault. He’d scared him away and now he’d lost not only the chance to bond with him, but the opportunity to even spend one last night together.

“Stupid,” he whispered, wishing now that he’d insisted on telling Jazz the truth last night. Maybe then none of this would have happened.

“Begging your pardon sir,” a timid voice said behind him, cutting through his despair, “but… were you asking about the young Lord?”

Prowl’s sagging doorwings angled back in confusion as he turned to face the speaker. Painted in the house colors, he looked like one of the few helpers Prowl had just seen in the kitchen. “Begging your pardon,” Prowl echoed. Had he heard that right? “Do you mean Jazz?”

The mech nodded, glancing back over his shoulder. He seemed afraid someone was going to follow them out of the kitchen. “This way,” he said quietly, gesturing for Prowl to come with him. They didn’t go far. Once they rounded the corner just down the hall, he continued. “I wouldn’t have said anything sir, only you seemed so upset.”

“No, I’m glad that you did,” Prowl said quickly, not wanting to lose what might be his only chance to find Jazz. “Do you know where he is? And what do you mean, young Lord?” Jazz wasn’t a lord, he was a servant, just like— well, if he was a servant just like  _ Prowl,  _ then maybe he could be a lord. “Explain,” Prowl demanded, the last vestiges of his composure crumbling to rust.

“I-I mean, sir, that Jazz is  _ Jazz,  _ the young Lord,” the servant stammered out, startled. Said together, the shortened form of the formal name sans subglyphs Jazz had been using as a moniker was clearly recognizable. “This is his house.”

It was? But the young Lord of the house was away with his betrothed! Was  _ that  _ what Jazz hadn’t been able to tell him last night? That he was already engaged? Prowl felt sick. It would certainly explain why he couldn’t find him… 

…though not, he realized as thought forced its way slowly through his emotional turmoil, why the servers had claimed not to know who he was. 

“Tell me where he is,” Prowl said, much less forcefully. “Please. It’s incredibly important that I speak with him.”

“I don’t know.” There was concern in the mech’s optics, not for how Prowl would react, but for Jazz. “I was polishing the lamps in the lower level late last night when I heard footsteps. I was supposed to be done already and thought it was Claviger come to yell at me so I hid, but it wasn’t — it was Lord Jazz, and Lord Mirage with him.”

“Did they say anything?”

“No, they just went down into the basement together. I didn’t think it was strange until later, but Lord Jazz would usually help with a party like this and no one’s seen him all day, and…” his already quiet voice dropped even further. “Cook said we weren’t supposed to talk about him tonight. At all.”

That was strange. Very strange indeed. Prowl was even less inclined now to believe Mirage’s story about an engagement. “Can you show me to the basement?”

“I… I don’t know sir,” the servant said, fidgeting anxiously. He seemed torn, afraid of the consequences of his actions while simultaneously fearing for Jazz. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have even said this much!” 

“Just tell me how to find the basement then,” Prowl said, not wanting to cause him any more trouble than he was already in for. “And when you go back in, tell them we were talking about the special aspic. It’s volatile and requires special handling, and I wanted to make sure no one was injured preparing it.”

“R-really? Alright then.” Having a reason to give for his absence relaxed the mech somewhat, though he still finished in a rush. “Go down to the end of his hall and turn left. Follow the purple sconces until you reach a plain steel door. That goes down to the lower level, and the stairs to the basement are behind another steel door one corridor to the right.”

“Thank you.” Prowl pushed away from the wall and set off, waving at the servant to return to the kitchen. “Go. If I am questioned, I won’t mention you.” He didn’t expect to be questioned though. With the party going on, everyone on the house’s obviously small staff would be far too busy to notice him snooping around where he shouldn’t be. His only real concern was Smokescreen sending someone looking for him if he was late returning for dinner, but not only did he have time yet before that was even a possibility, he didn’t care. Let them go ahead and have dinner without him. Jazz’s very life could be in danger. 


	7. Chapter 7

Refusing to think that he might not find Jazz, or worse, that he would find only his frame, Prowl all but ran down the halls following the helpful servant’s directions. The first steel door was right where he’d said it would be, but the second was a little more difficult to locate. He found the corridor without any trouble, but the door was cleverly designed to keep it from standing out and disrupting the aesthetic of the house. Prowl wound up walking past it before finding it when he doubled back.

The lights were on in the staircase as he descended, and in the basement itself as well. Prowl could see signs of recent activity, servants coming and going during the day to bring things up from storage. He discovered rooms with overstock supplies for the kitchen, others containing seasonal decorations, and still more with all manner of assorted furniture, much of which was slightly out of vogue. 

What he didn’t find was Jazz.

In fact, he didn’t find anyone at all. Checking his chronometer, Prowl saw there was still some time left before the meal, but not much. He fought the urge to go faster and deliberately slowed down instead, carefully retracing his steps and double checking every room to make absolutely sure he hadn’t missed anything. 

“Jazz? Are you there?” Prowl tried calling softly as he went now, no longer worried about anyone hearing or interfering. “Jazz!”

There was no answer, but Prowl’s doorwings picked up a strange vibration when he called into one of the dated furniture rooms. Something about the right wall was off, bouncing the sound back differently. Prowl made his way over, calling again to help him pinpoint the anomaly and found… a hidden door. Or, not so much hidden as forgotten, he concluded upon further examination. It was the same color as the wall it was flush with and someone had set an organic-fiber tapestry stand partially in front of it, making it difficult to spot, but it wasn’t entirely obscured. Not exactly what Prowl would call disguised. Then there was the fact that it wasn’t even locked. The door opened easily when Prowl turned the latch to look into the darkness beyond.

Checking that the door would not now lock  _ behind  _ him, Prowl stepped through and let it fall closed, turning his headlights on to illuminate his way.

The path sloped gently downwards, ending in a flight of stairs cut into the floor. It was disconcerting, following those steps down into an even deeper darkness. The light from Prowl’s headlights lit the walls in front of him, but he couldn’t see where he was putting his feet. It seemed to go on forever. Had Jazz and Mirage even come this way? Or was Prowl just going to get himself lost?

_ All you have to do when you get lost is look for me. _

“Jazz?” At last the stairs ended. Prowl stepped out into another hallway, shining his lights in either direction. “Jazz!” 

His voice was swallowed by the darkness. There were lamps on the wall like the ones in the basement above, ones that looked like they would still work if Prowl knew how to turn them on. They led off both left and right, giving no indication which way to go. Prowl hesitated, uncertain. His best guess was that he was in an old, unused level of the basement, perhaps even the original basement of the manor. There would be just as many rooms to search as there had been upstairs, if not more. Where was he supposed to start?

“Jazz!”

Nothing.

Still, he couldn’t give up. Not when there was even a chance Jazz was down here, alone in the dark. Afraid. Hur—

“No!” Prowl shook his helm, cutting off that train of thought. He needed to keep moving, not stand around wasting time. 

Taking a gamble that this floor was laid out similarly to the one he’d just come from, Prowl turned right and began walking. His guess proved a good one. The rooms he passed were arranged very like the ones upstairs, save for being either empty or full of even older furnishings. Moving quickly, Prowl soon reached the corridor that should lead, if the layout continued to match, to a block of small pantry-like rooms.

It was all too easy to imagine them as impromptu prison cells… or worse.

“Jazz?” Prowl called again as he rounded the last corner, spark spinning wildly in his chest.  _ Please let him be here! Please let him be alright!  _ “Jazz!”

“…Prowl?”

Prowl nearly tripped over his own feet. “Jazz!” It was him! His voice sounded scratchy and scared and exhausted, but it was him! “Yes, it’s me. Are you alright?”

_ “Prowl!”  _ Jazz’s response was somewhere between a wail and a sob. “Prowl, please!  _ Please,  _ get me out of here!”

Spurred on by the desperation in Jazz’s cry, Prowl flew down the hallway, honing in on the right door by Jazz’s weak pounding on it. “What happened?” he asked, fumbling for the latch. “Have you been down here this whole time?”

“Pleasepleaseplease,” Jazz begged, not hearing or not able to answer Prowl’s questions through his desire to escape. “Let me out!”

“I will, I promise.” 

The door didn’t open when he pulled on it, but Prowl wasn’t going to let that stop him. Not when he could feel the fear in Jazz’s field through the metal of the door. At first he thought it was locked, but as he stepped back to get a better look he noticed something on the floor. He knelt down to examine it. “Jazz, listen to me: I need you to stop leaning against the door.”

With a stressed whine of his engine, Prowl heard Jazz move back. As soon as his weight was off the door, Prowl grasped the simple metal doorstop and pulled sharply. It resisted at first, then popped free so suddenly Prowl almost overbalanced. “Got it!” he said, then was immediately  _ knocked  _ over by the door flying open in his face. “Ouch!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hit you, Ijusthadtogetoutofthere.” Prowl found himself pinned to the ground by Jazz’s trembling frame as the mech practically landed on him and clung on with all the strength he had left. “I’m sorry.”

Prowl wound his arms around Jazz, pain entirely eclipsed by his relief. “It’s alright,” he said gently, hugging Jazz close. “I’m not hurt.” And aside from being terrified, tired, and likely low on fuel, Jazz didn’t seem to be hurt either. Prowl purred his engine soothingly beneath Jazz’s helm, stroking over his back like he would a youngling. “You’re safe now.”

“No I’m not.” Jazz continued to shake. “Primus, he’s my  _ friend!  _ He’s looked out for me my whole life! Why would he  _ do  _ that to me?”

“Mirage?” Prowl guessed. He felt Jazz nod. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“I… Prowl, I’m so sorry,” Jazz said again, looking completely devastated as he met Prowl’s optics. “There’s something I need to tell you, something I should have told you last night. I wanted to, I really did, and I was going to come back and tell you but then I panicked and thought you’d be mad at me for not telling you sooner and then I couldn’t face you, but then I came home and I was so happy thinking about what you’d said and I changed my mind and couldn’t wait to see you tonight, only—”

“Shh, it’s alright.” Prowl kept stroking in a calming rhythm. “I think I know now what you were afraid to tell me, my Lord.” 

Jazz’s visor flashed at the title. “How did you…?”

“I’ll explain later.” The kitchen servant probably wouldn’t mind Jazz knowing how concerned he had been, but they had more important things to talk about. “What matters is that I understand why you were afraid to tell me, and I forgive you for disappearing last night.”

“You do?” Jazz sagged against him, relieved. “I should have told you. But you see now why I couldn’t just accept in the garden like I wanted to?”

_ Like I wanted to.  _ Prowl’s spark leapt with joy. Jazz  _ did  _ want to say yes! But he couldn’t ask him again; not without telling him what  _ he  _ had been withholding first. “I do,” he said, intending to do just that, but Jazz continued.

“I meant it though, when I said I’d changed my mind,” he said emphatically. “After I had time to think it over, I decided that when I saw you tonight, I would tell you everything and hope you would still have me.” One trembling hand slowly made its way up to Prowl’s face, resting there gently. “You make me so happy. I want so much to give you that too.”

“You do,” Prowl tried again, but once more Jazz cut him off. 

“The problem is it isn’t a lie, what I told you before about my creators leaving me in debt.” Jazz’s familiar wry smile made a shaky reappearance. “Mirage does his best to run the house frugally, and I do what I can too — working here so we don’t have to hire as many servants, taking jobs outside the house for extra money — but we have a long way to go. So you see, I’m every bit as poor as I told you. However grand my house and title seem, they only mean my debts are that much more significant, and I… I didn’t want to burden you with that.”

“I asked you to bond with me because you make me happy, not because I saw something material to gain by it.” In fact, he very nearly  _ hadn’t  _ asked because he’d thought he  _ had  _ to make such a match. Prowl didn’t care how big the debt was; he was not going to let it cost him Jazz. “The knowledge that you owed money was never of concern to me.”

“As incredibly romantic as that is,” Jazz said with a pleased flutter of his EM field, “and it really, really is, are you  _ sure  _ it’s something you could live with?”

“I am sure. For you see…” This was it. There was no turning back now. “…I have misled you about my identity as well. I am not a valet. I am, in truth, the heir to the throne.” Embarrassment prickled in his lines and his field, and Prowl gave Jazz his own version of a wry grin. “Or, rather, I will be, once I take a bondmate — if the mech I’ve fallen in love with will still have me.”

Jazz lay there on top of him staring in silence for several moments, his face a study of confusion, shock, and something Prowl couldn’t identify. At last, he finally asked, “Are you serious?”

That still wasn’t a rejection. “Yes. I really am the hei—”

“Not about that,” Jazz said softly, pressing a finger over Prowl’s lips to stop him. “I meant the other thing.”

Prowl smiled. “Lord Jazz,” he said formally, shifting the mech still in his arms so they were sitting together instead of laying on the floor. “I love you and would have you always at my side.”

“It’s too good to be true,” Jazz whispered, trembling now for an entirely new reason. “This has to be a dream.”

“Then share that dream with me,” Prowl begged, knowing and not caring that he was pleading now in earnest. “With all my spark, I ask you this: in full knowledge of my position, would you consent to bond with me?”

“Oh, Prowl,” Jazz sighed happily. “Yes!” Then he surged forward in his arms, his lips seeking out Prowl’s for the kiss they’d so nearly shared more than once before. It didn’t matter that they weren’t on a romantic balcony or in a secluded section of the gardens. The surroundings were irrelevant. Locked in the shared embrace, the world shrank down to just the two of them, the light from Prowl’s headlights all but obscured between them except where it escaped like sparklight.

When the kiss ended, neither of them could stop smiling. For awhile they sat simply gazing at each other in the dark, until Prowl remembered something and laughed.

“What’s so amusing?”

“Only that we’ve made real the lie Mirage told about your whereabouts tonight.” Prowl saw the shadows on Jazz’s face deepen at the name and felt bad for making light of it. “He said that you were spending the night with your newly betrothed — and so you are.”

“Funny.” Jazz wasn’t laughing. “He told me my creators had left something special for me for when I fell in love and bonded with someone. Then he led me down here, shoved me in that closet, barred the door and just… walked away.” He glanced in the direction of the tiny room, the vague outline of the doorframe all that was visible in the low light. “My caretaker, my friend, a mech I’ve known since I was a sparkling, locked me up without a single word. I didn’t even know if he was going to come back for me. For all I knew, he’d left me there to die.” He looked back to Prowl, the pale light of his visor wavering unevenly with the strength of his emotions.  _ “Why,  _ Prowl? Why did he do it?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask him.” Prowl hugged Jazz closer, anger on his behalf for what he’d been put through sparking in his circuits. Given the way Mirage had put himself forward for the ‘Prince’s’ consideration, Prowl suspected his motive had been to advance himself at Jazz’s expense. “But I will ensure that he  _ answers.” _

“I just don’t understand.” Jazz buried his face against Prowl’s shoulder, his fingers smoothing restlessly over his plating as though reassuring himself Prowl was really there. “Do you know what was worse though?”

“Worse than his betrayal?” There was something worse than that? “What?”

“Realizing I wasn’t going to be able to see you. Knowing the party had started and you would be looking for me, but I wouldn’t be there.” Jazz’s fingers curled tighter against Prowl’s armor. “I thought for sure you would think I’d rejected you, that I’d lost you forever.”

“I did almost despair at one point,” Prowl admitted. Jazz’s fear had very nearly come true. “But you have friends in this house who are loyal to you, even if the mech who heads it is not.”

“Whoever they are, I owe them the biggest thank you in the world. Maybe I can get them a job in the palace,” Jazz said, finally laughing a little as he raised his helm. “After all, you found a position for me.”

“Please,” Prowl groaned, “don’t say that where Smokescreen can hear you.”

“Smokescreen?”

“The mech who’s been playing the Prince for me. He’s a good friend, but he suffers from delusions of humor.”

“He knows about us, doesn’t he?” Jazz said shrewdly, and Prowl could guess he was remembering the night Smokescreen had rather suggestively sent him off to look after Prowl. “Does he still think I’m nothing more than a servant?”

“He likely does, but as he encouraged me to propose, I doubt he holds it against you.” Prowl carefully got his feet under him and stood, pulling Jazz with him. “Perhaps we should let him know the good news?”

“And get out of here,” Jazz agreed fervently, clinging to Prowl’s arm. “Don’t let go of me?”

“Now that I have you? Never.”

They held hands the entire way back, even where doing so was difficult. Jazz didn’t cling quite so tightly once the lights were on again, and Prowl insisted they detour by one of the pantries in the first level of the basement to grab something for Jazz to refuel. The rate at which he consumed it said a lot for how low his levels had to be. 

Prowl checked his chronometer again while Jazz drank a second cube. It was long past time for dinner to have started. “Are you ready to go? The meal should be ending soon, if they stayed on schedule.”

“Everyone will be headed to the ballroom then.” Jazz polished off his cube. “We can wait for them there.”

They didn’t have to wait long. Still holding Prowl’s hand, Jazz positioned them dramatically in the center of the room just in time for the crowd to arrive. Prowl couldn’t help feeling slightly vindictive over the way Mirage’s optics paled when they landed on Jazz.

The smile on Smokescreen’s face at seeing the two of them together faltered when he took in the seriousness of their expressions. “Prowl? Is something wrong?”

“Yes. Something very serious,” Prowl announced, projecting so everyone could hear. “At my side stands the rightful heir to this house, whom I discovered imprisoned in the lower levels by none other than the mech on your arm.”

It was a credit to Smokescreen’s intelligence and political acumen how quickly he worked out all the implications layered in that statement. “Lord Jazz,” he acknowledged without missing a beat. “The rumors of your engagement were grossly exaggerated.”

“Not exaggerated,” Jazz said in a loud, clear voice. “Just premature.” Smokescreen grinned, but said nothing. “I think I’m owed an explanation, Mirage.”

“I think we all are.” Prowl frowned in Mirage’s direction. “What you have done is criminal.”

Ignoring them both, Mirage turned to appeal to Smokescreen. “Your Highness, surely you don’t mean to allow your servant to make such accusations?”

“I could make them instead, if you’d prefer,” Smokescreen offered blandly. “Or perhaps you would accept them from Lord Jazz? Either way, I would suggest you make whatever explanation you’re about to give phenomenally good.”

Mirage took a step back as Jazz stepped forward. “Why did you do it?” he asked, raising his and Prowl’s joined hands. “I was going to accept his proposal. I was so happy, and you said you were happy for me!”

The mech looked like he was searching for an exit. “I wouldn’t,” Prowl warned. “If what you wanted was a chance at a royal match yourself, all you needed to do was say exactly what you did and wait for Jazz and I to make it truth. So why imprison him?”

“After everything I did to ensure he never found a suitable mate?” A hint of embarrassment and regret escaped in Mirage’s field before he reigned himself in, standing proud and cold. “After how hard I worked to remain in control of this house, he decides to bond with some… some  _ servant  _ so they can inherit everything?”

“There’s nothing  _ to  _ inherit,” Jazz protested. “Other than the manor, and I would never have turned you out! Mirage,” his voice cracked. “You were my  _ brother.” _

“Of course there’s something to inherit,” Mirage said haughtily, unaffected by Jazz’s tears. “Disguising the money wasn’t easy, but it was the perfect way to keep you from supplanting me. You were hardly going to go seeking suitors if you were ashamed of your ‘debt’ and of working below your station to pay it off.”

Prowl felt Jazz’s hand go limp in his. He gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze. “Then… it was all a lie?” Jazz’s voice still shook, but steadied as he forged on. “My creators didn’t leave us in debt? I didn’t have to become a servant in my own house so we could afford to keep it?”

“You volunteered to do that, as I recall,” Mirage sniffed. “And it seems to have served you well. Congratulations on your engagement. I’m sure you and your new valet will be very comfortable here once I’ve been removed from the premises.” He turned to Smokescreen, expecting him to make it official, his lip curling at the grin on the ‘Prince’s’ face. “You find this amusing, do you?”

“Actually? Yes. You see, I don’t have the authority to sentence you. That honor,” Smokescreen said almost gleefully, “belongs to his Highness.”

“What? But…” Confused, Mirage followed Smokescreen’s gaze over to Prowl. It took him a moment to make the connection, but the shock and utter horror on his face when he did was priceless.

“Yes,” Prowl confirmed when it was clear the noble fraud had been struck speechless. “I am he. I wanted to learn the true nature of the houses I was to choose my bondmate from, and I have to say,” he said with a sense of irony, “I’ve found the best and the worst right here.” Looking out over the gathering behind Mirage and Smokescreen, he proclaimed, “I have made my choice. Lord Jazz,” he raised his hand over his spark, “will you accept my proposal?”

“Again?” Jazz finally tore his gaze away from Mirage and looked at Prowl. He lifted their still-joined hands up until they rested above his spark, then covered the hand on Prowl’s chest with the other. “I accept, and would ask you the same: will you be my bondmate?”

Prowl stepped forward, bringing them face to face. “Nothing would please me more.”

Confused as some of the guests likely were, all of them applauded the kiss that sealed the promise. Prowl doubted Mirage was clapping (and suspected that one of the mechs who had begun cheering was Smokescreen), but he didn’t bother to check. He had everything he wanted right in front of him, and he wasn’t looking away for anything.

***

Mirage, unsurprisingly, did not attend the bonding ceremony. The full extent of his manipulations would require a thorough investigation before he could be brought to court, though Jazz had already submitted a deal on his behalf. As hurt as he had been, and despite Prowl fully supporting the court pursuing the maximum penalty, Jazz had decided he was more interested in justice than punishment — poetic justice, as his deal was for Mirage to relinquish any funds he had siphoned off and hidden and be forced to earn his way from then on just as Jazz had been. Mirage would probably see that as a punishment, but Prowl was impressed by Jazz’s leniency. 

Just one more reason he was in love with the mech.

Now, standing at the altar watching Jazz come into view, Prowl was reminded of another reason. Still predominantly black and white, Jazz’s plating no longer sported dull or worn patches and he gleamed with freshly painted accents in his signature blue but also red and silver. He was dazzling to behold, and Prowl could see joy sparkling in his visor and in his radiant smile. He probably had a matching smile on his face, just like his matching paint. Flying in the face of tradition, Prowl had chosen not to completely change his colors and had remained black and white as well, with accents in reds and golds.

It wasn’t like the ceremonial dais was lacking for color anyway; not with Smokescreen in his vibrant blue and red with yellow and green standing next to, of all mechs, Hot Rod in glaring orange and magenta. Apparently, as soon as word got out that Smokescreen wasn’t the Prince, Hot Rod had reached out to see if he ‘still wanted to try out that hoverboard’. Without the specter of responsibility hanging over them, the two seemed to be hitting it off rather well. Prowl was looking forward to getting some of his own back teasing him about it.

Prowl recognized many of the mechs and femmes Jazz walked by on his way down the aisle. Their reactions to his revealed identity had been mixed, but mostly positive. Lady Chromia and Lord Ironhide had declared it a brilliant strategy, and both Lady Botanica and, eerily, Lord Shockwave, complimented his approach to impartial observation. Lord Powerglide had been a bit put off, but a few well-placed compliments had smoothed that over. 

He hadn’t received any communication from Starscream, Sunstorm, or their errant sire. They had been invited to the ceremony, naturally, but Jazz reached the end of the aisle without Prowl spotting them. If they hadn’t already made a scene and been thrown out earlier, Prowl expected they would have that to look forward to at the reception. Let Smokescreen deal with that, if it came to it. He and Hot Rod would probably enjoy tormenting the spoiled seekers.

But now Jazz was there next to him, and all other thoughts were pushed aside. Prowl barely heard the priest announcing them to the crowd. “You look wonderful,” he said quietly.

“So do you,” Jazz whispered back. Neither had gotten a chance to see each other before they were done up in full ceremonial ornamentation, and while Prowl couldn’t imagine Jazz wanting to keep wearing the delicate mesh cape and draping crystal strands, they were absolutely lovely on him. “Even if you are wearing almost as much jewelry as Lady Astoria.”

“In equally good taste, at least.” Though there was one piece missing — Prowl could not officially wear the crown until after he and Jazz were bonded. He wanted to reach out and take Jazz’s hand, but had to settle for brushing him with his field for now. “I would have wanted you without any of this, you know.”

“I know,” Jazz responded, his field reciprocating Prowl’s caress. “So would I.”

Smiling, their fields already united, they turned to the priest together so he could proclaim them one.


End file.
